


The Mysterious Case of the Hufflepuff Princess

by Lilia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, F/F, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, POV Draco Malfoy, Part-Werewolf Harry Potter, Recovery, Slytherins Being Slytherins, Trauma, Veela Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-27
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:47:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 28,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22435123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lilia/pseuds/Lilia
Summary: His father in Azkaban, and the family manor in ruins, Draco Malfoy returns to Hogwarts for his eighth year determined to manipulate, screw, and generally connive his way back to power.  How is it that he finds himself being manipulated into joining Luna Lovegood’s new club? And why is Luna starting a fan club for the boy band Lunatique anyway? And how on earth did Draco come to decide it was a good idea to help a group of bullied Slytherin third-years learn protection spells?And though for once in Draco's life he’s not doing anything wrong, why is Harry Potter following him around, accusing him of being up to no good?And could the answer to all of these questions be the mysterious Hufflepuff Princess?
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 106
Kudos: 488





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work in this Fandom, and it's been incredibly fun to write. I'd originally thought of something about 5-6K words, so of course instead I pounded out 26K words over the past 16 days. I've only been reading Potter fic for a few months, so I'm only just starting to get a feel for the tropes and preoccupations. I owe a real debt to those first amazing authors I read here, and drew pretty liberally from ideas I found in works by xiaq, bixgirl1, astolat, and others. Sincere apologies to UK readers for any discomfort caused by my attempts to capture the idiom of your teenagers. 
> 
> Wow, this is a full-length fic that is not omegaverse: life really is full of surprises.
> 
> Comments are greatly appreciated.
> 
> I'm working on a part 2 to this from Harry's perspective. Hope to get it finished one of these days.

“This year is going to be horrible,” Pansy moaned. “Why did my parents force this: it’s absurd.”

“Same reason that mine did,” Draco said drily. “Because our only prayer of reentering society and restoring our family’s fortunes depends on our N.E.W.T.s.”

“Speak for yourselves.” Blaise didn’t even bother to look up from an appallingly garish muggle magazine, fittingly named _EW_ , which featured a photo of his mother on the cover. Apparently, her solution to their problems was to go to a place called “Holy Wood,” in the Americas, where she was restoring the Zabini fortunes through what muggles bizarrely referred to as ‘Moving pictures,” though they were not photos at all. Though Draco had no doubt she’d make plenty of muggle ‘bucks,’ it had caused an outright scandal among what was left of pureblood society. 

“Shut it, Blaise,” Pansy snarled. 

Blaise reared at this, letting his power off the chain, making Draco gulp. “Apologize, Parkinson, or I won’t share my gossip with you.”

Pansy never seemed affected by it, but her eyes glittered at the possibility of good gossip. “Do tell, and no, I won’t apologize.”

“Please don’t,” Draco said feelingly. “Else he’ll be insufferable the rest of the trip. He’ll spill either way.”

“I know he will,” Pansy said.

Blaise made an unconvincing front at holding out before dropping all pretense. “Oh alright,” he said as if they’d threatened him with the Cruciatus curse. “Well, now that you-know-who is gone, I’ve heard from a very reliable source, that His Royal Highness, Prince Nero of Borgia, is allowing his daughter to finally attend Hogwarts. She’ll be in the seventh year.“

“Princess Lucia Borgia, sole heiress to about a billion galleons?” Pansy said.

“Excuse me,” Draco snapped. “Her mother Duessa is the direct descendant of Salazar Slytherin’s sister. She was here at the same time as one of my aunts. My mother once described her as the most devious person she’d ever encountered. And she managed the best marriage of their generation.”

The carriage went quiet as all three of them began to digest the implications of a new Slytherin with her bloodline and endowments. And Lucia Borgia was not an eleven-year-old first year, but a seventh year no doubt at the height of her powers.

Slytherin House was already notorious for its bewildering complex of hierarchies and alliances. Thanks to the war, all three of them were effectively personae non gratae, the first time in generations that a Malfoy and a Parkinson were not acknowledged leaders of the House. But a Borgia princess would serve as a wild card unlike any the House had seen in _decades_. The Borgias had managed to stay out of the “late unpleasantness” as Draco’s mother now called it. But Draco rather suspected that ‘staying out’ in the Borgia’s case meant rampant profiteering and exploitation of both sides while staying safely behind the ancient wards that hid their kingdom. 

Pansy smiled demonically. “Well, good job, Blaise. Perhaps this year will not be a complete waste of time after all.” She jumped up from her seat and moved towards the door of their car. 

“Where are you going?” Draco demanded. It was an understatement to say that emotions towards Pansy and Draco especially were unfavorable at the moment, and while he knew Pansy could take care of herself, the last thing they needed was for her to hurt someone foolish enough to try to hex her. 

“I’m done hiding in here. This news is valuable for precisely two more hours: the moment we enter the Great Hall it will become worthless. Right now it’s currency, and I’m going to find a way to spend it.”

Draco shrugged, out of habit refusing to show he was impressed. If anyone could squeeze its maximum value it was Pansy, and they would all profit if she could create even a tiny thaw among the rest of the Slytherins, who were mercilessly blackballing them. 

“That was generous,” Draco said as soon as she was gone, but Blaise had slapped down his magazine and sat forward.

“It got her out of this bloody carriage,” he snapped, all traces of boredom evaporated. “Now spill!”

“I beg your pardon,” Draco sputtered.

“You will indeed. Did you think you could hide something like this from me? You’ve accessed your Veela heritage—don’t even consider trying to lie to me.”

Draco seethed. This was not a discussion he would have chosen to have with Blaise, who’s attitudes towards sexuality were … complex, and frankly unfathomable to Draco. “It’s that obvious?” he said, choosing the only safe course available at the moment.

“Not at all, but you can’t expect to hide that from the son of an erosmancer.”

It was clear Draco wasn’t escaping this conversation and there was no advantage in irritating Blaise by being disingenuous. “I have to do something—my father is in Azkaban, our vaults are practically empty from reparations. Mother has had to close up Malfoy Manor since we don’t have the money to repair it properly. And you know what happened this summer: we’ve been cut by everyone; aside from you lot, not a single pureblood family will speak to us.”

“Which of your parents?” Blaise asked.

“Father. It seems that influence he so painstakingly cultivated over the years came mostly through the bedrooms of ministers or their spouses, rather than in the halls of the Ministry itself.”

“Well it’s good to hear your mother wasn’t one to make a fuss: I knew I liked her, but a husband fucking his way to power and prestige is one thing. A son is another.”

“She’s against it, but she’s not in a position to object, is she? Having failed to stop my father from throwing in with the wrong side so very thoroughly. She helped me research the ritual to activate my heritage.” Blaise nodded approvingly so Draco opted to edit out the part about how she’d refused to speak to him for two solid weeks, which counted as a screaming match for the Malfoy family, and only broke down when he made it clear he would pursue the ritual without her help. 

“And who do you plan to target with these newfound abilities of yours?”

“I plan to seduce, enrapture, and ensorcel every last Slytherin upperclassman—and woman—until they are eating from the palm of my hand and pining for my least crumb of attention.”

“Restrained as always,” Blaise laughed. “But Draco, darling, let’s have this clear. With or without the Veela power, you are absolutely edible and welcome in my bed any time you’d like. But use that power on me, and I will return the favor—whom do you think would win that one, pet?”

Draco just rolled his eyes—as if he’d need to use his power on Blaise, who’d been shagging him on and off since 5th year—though the warning was timely since there was always the possibility that he might be tempted to practice on him.

“I see we’ve gone a whole two hours without you mentioning Potter,” Blaise added slyly. “Planning to have a go at that?—he’s filled out _quite nicely_ , and without his usual keepers, seems like he’d be ripe for the plucking.”

“Don’t be ludicrous!”

Blaise just scoffed. “Ludicrous or not: A word of warning on that one. Mother told me in case I got ideas myself of solving some of our problems that way. She knew his father, James, and the Potters have wolf blood somewhere in the family tree. They tend to be possessive.”

“Oh honestly: haven’t you noticed him chatting up bloody Dean Thomas? They’re on the best of terms—real chums--his girlfriend’s ex-lover. Doesn’t exactly reek of territoriality if you ask me,” Draco said scathingly.

“I haven’t noticed,” Blaise smirked. “Since I have better things to do with my time than stare at the Boy Wonder, day in and day out. But just because he wasn’t possessive of the Weasley girl, doesn’t mean he won’t be when he meets that special someone.”

“Ugh— _special someone?_ You sound like a Hufflepuff first year. Do you want me to vomit?” Draco hoped he wore a tolerably horrified expression—“special someone” _was_ an excruciating phrase—but it wasn’t quite enough to eradicate the (slight!) shudder he felt at the concept of a ‘possessive Potter,’ whatever that meant.

“Whatever you say, Darling, but if you are planning a general campaign of seduction, make sure you save him for last.”

“Please just stop or I really will vomit. And a moment’s consideration would tell you how useless that would be, even if I did want to pursue him. Can you imagine what they would do to me if it got out that I had activated my Veela blood in order to corrupt the Savior of Wizardom? I might as well book a room in Azkaban next to my father’s.” In fact it had taken Draco a bit more than _a moment’s_ consideration to arrive at that unsettling conclusion, but he was grateful it had occurred to him weeks ago, while he was still researching the ritual.

Thank Merlin, Pansy’s return put a stop to more of Blaise’s annoyingly astute observations about Potter. Her eyes were glittering in triumph making her look almost like her old self. “Astoria bit.”

“Nicely done, Pans,” Draco said. He meant it. Astoria was a real coup: family in the Sacred 28, impeccable manners, wealth, a bit dull but unimpeachable otherwise. Best of all, her family was less implicated in the “late unpleasantness” than the average Slytherin family but were in just enough to escape the charge of trying to play both sides.

If Pansy could regain her standing with a humorless frump like Astoria, they’d be well on their way to retaking their rightful positions at the top of the House hierarchy. 

He was glad to see Pansy animated again, though he did wonder that both of them were so focused on regaining their ground in Slytherin. There were four houses at Hogwarts after all. But more than the other three, Slytherins kept to themselves—even setting aside the ‘late unpleasantness.’ Draco had always believed it came down to the Slytherin preoccupation with blood purity, but now that he’d been violently disillusioned from that cult, he could see how fixation on magical blood could serve as a convenient excuse for failing to solve the problem of actually dealing with the other houses.

Having suffered such an ignominious defeat, Slytherins whatever their age had never been so utterly out of power. Now would be an awfully good time for members of the House to possess some skill for manipulating--or just comprehending--non-Slytherins. Not that it was easy. Draco had spent his summer being confounded on a daily basis by how the Gryffindor crew conducted themselves in the face of overwhelming victory—for example, by testifying, often with tears in their eyes, to save anyone, no matter how guilty or pathetic, who’d performed the slightest act of decency during the war—him and his mother included. It looked so much like weakness and gullibility, it was almost painful for Draco to interpret it any other way. But he was sick of underestimating his rivals.

For centuries, Slytherins had measured success exclusively according to the Byzantine criteria that had ruled the House since the founding. For all their cleverness, it never seemed to occur to Slytherins that they might try to cultivate students from the other houses. It was a weakness, Draco now recognized. During their fifth year, Potter had caused Dolores Umbridge to fly into daily apoplexies through the simple act of amassing and training a group of random nobodies, every last one of whom was thoroughly unimpressive (minus Granger, he conceded), not a one with any talent for strategy or leadership. 

And yet he’d somehow molded that group of losers into a force capable of contending with the Carrows, who rivaled his aunt for psychotic sadism. And that last part they’d done without the help of the golden trio (and let’s be real, golden _duo_ , because Ron Weasley had about as much magical talent as Gregory Goyle), under the leadership of Neville Longbottom, for Merlin’s sake. 

Surely there were virtues that Slytherins were unable to discern, and thanks to that blindness incapable of profiting off of. Though when he contemplated it, Ravenclaws could be tolerable, barely, but could he seriously endure being friends with a Hufflepuff? Merlin save him. 


	2. Chapter 2

As the train pulled into Hogsmeade, Draco quietly extended his personal _Protego_ spell to encompass Pansy and Blaise—thank dearest aunt Bellatrix for his new skill with casting wordless, and often wandless, spells. To see the bubble of avoidance surrounding them, you’d think it was made of lead. Despite Pansy’s optimism, Astoria didn’t acknowledge them—he suspected that Pansy had found her alone in the carriage. Surrounded by other students, she was not willing to deign even a nod.

More disturbing was seeing a second-year Slytherin go down with a knockback jinx, apparently cast by a group of older Hufflepuffs. It was a bad sign. He doubted any student could get through Draco’s own protection spells--except for Potter that is, and perhaps Granger, and to his knowledge Saint Potter had never hexed a student, probably never used magic against anyone that was not in self-defense. But if the other houses were attacking vulnerable Slytherins, Draco’s chances of regaining any ground with his housemates would plunge into negative territory. 

More reason to be grateful for the Borgia Princess. She would distract the Slytherins—and one never knew. He doubted Salazar Slytherin’s descendant would care that he’d been a Death Eater. Perhaps she’d come up with some fiendishly clever strategy that depended on winning him over. He could hope.

It had been years since Draco had felt anything but the barest curiosity about the sorting ceremony, so it felt almost nostalgic to once again give a shit. He showed no vulgar excitement, unlike many of his fellow Slytherins, several of whom were rather pathetically obvious. He could practically taste the calculations going on in everyone’s heads—weighing the advantages of such a wealthy and illustrious connection against her parents’ well-established reputation for gruesomely murdering anyone who crossed them. 

Draco was mostly curious about what he could learn watching a true genius at manipulation, exploitation, and power games. But he couldn’t really blame his classmates for their eagerness: with the entire school seated at the house tables, it was painfully conspicuous that Slytherin was a shadow of its former self. Enrollment was down in every house even with the added 8th year, but nowhere as dramatically as Slytherin, where only half the students had returned. 

As the first years came forward, there seemed a rather annoying surplus of A’s—Aberdeen, Archer, Arrowpoint, Azari, went to Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Ravenclaw and then Gryffindor, producing that house’s usual absurd roars of congratulations. Then came Bartleby, Belton, Bishop, Black (no relation), Black _enstein_ , Black _wood_ , to finally reach Lucy—not Lucia--Borgia. 

As the girl approached the stool, Draco had to admit that at first glance, she was …unprepossessing. Short, with rather non-descript light brown hair—in two braids on the side of her head, which was _not_ a flattering style. And were those freckles or spots? All those millions of galleons and she couldn’t buy some skin potion? He quickly congratulated himself on seeing through her disguise. Obviously this was a form of camouflage and advanced mental warfare—deceiving rivals and enemies into underestimating her, the better to smite them and leave them wishing they were never born.

He had no choice but to praise her acting skills because she looked intensely nervous as she sat upon the stool. He could practically feel the breath of anticipation at the Slytherin table, the plots and jockeying just waiting to be unleashed, as the headmistress lowered the sorting hat on the girl’s head. 

It took the sentient headgear barely a second to exclaim, “Hufflepuff.” 

Draco was left blinking as he observed Salazar Slytherin’s grand-niece _jump up and down_ with other Hufflepuffs making a sound he was forced to characterize as squealing. Everything in him revolted. 

He realized Pansy was speaking to him. “What does it mean?”

“How on Earth would I know?”

“Did you know this?” she practically attacked Blaise. 

“Don’t be daft—of course I didn’t.” Draco believed him. Blaise wasn’t stupid and making an enemy of Pansy the day school started before securing any other alliances would be the definition of stupid. Pansy could hold a grudge as well as anyone in the House and her cursing was probably better than Draco’s. 

Meanwhile around them plots and machinations were dying as rapidly as they’d been born, and he could see an ominous level of despondency ripple through the Slytherin table like Dragon Pox. 

By habit his eyes wandered over to the Gryffindor table. Potter was sitting with Thomas and Finnigan, congratulating some bedazzled new tyke who’d been sorted to the house. But Draco had years of familiarity with Potter’s every expression and knew instinctively that he was faking his enthusiasm. 

Everyone thought the Boy Wonder was so bloody nice and honorable, but Draco had the scars to prove that Potter could hit back plenty hard when provoked. And why did Potter always feel so obliged to be “nice” to everyone, anyway? 

Wank. Phony wanking sucker. 

Draco couldn’t stop his mind from wandering back to Blaise’s warning that Potter would be possessive: how exactly would that fit with the kindly, harmless savior image he cultivated for the adoring public? 

He noticed that the new housemate was standing awfully close—was he planning to sit in Potter’s lap, perhaps? Why did Potter put up with this nonsense?—he was the fucking chosen one. Gryffindors were so bloody infuriating. 

Draco could practically _taste_ Potter’s growing alarm at the obsequious hero worship so he smirked when Potter’s gaze met his—some things never changed. Without really intending it, he let the Veela power off the leash—just a tiny bit, hardly noticeable--and Draco was thrilled to see that Potter’s eyes widened to huge green saucers.

The newspapers had expressed nearly universal shock that Potter had chosen to return for the newly created 8th year at Hogwarts without the other two thirds of the golden trio. But Draco didn’t know what all the fuss was. Granger had been allowed to sit a special administration of the N.E.W.T.s and despite skipping 7th year, had scored the highest overall marks since Dumbledore took them about two centuries ago. Weasley seemed to be following the family trend of skipping N.E.W.T.s entirely, to enter as a partner into his brother’s apparently quite successful joke shop. 

If the reports were true, Potter had been offered a high-level position in the Ministry, invited to start Auror training even without his N.E.W.T.s, and been offered the seeker position on the Hollyhead Harpies alongside his erstwhile girlfriend, Ginevra Weasley, who was joining the team as Chaser. 

But instead he was returning to Hogwarts with a handful of his classmates for 8th year. To Draco it made perfect sense. From the moment Potter entered the wizarding world, his entire life was dominated by this life-and-death quest to fight the most powerful dark wizard in history. He’d had no say at all in whether to embark, his most trusted mentors had manipulated and deceived him to ensure he carried out their plans. Granger and Weasley had chosen to join that fight; Potter had been dragooned. And now he was being asked to sign on to devote the rest of his bloody life to being their hero. 

Even Draco acknowledged it was a completely shit way to the treat the boy who brought down the Dark Lord. 

Hogwarts would give him a year of breathing room. 

But it worried Draco that Potter didn’t seem to be treating this year as a lark; he seemed lost, disconnected. For once in their long, sorry career together, Draco felt like he had an advantage, though it seemed scandalous to even think it. Because in contrast to Potter, Draco had never had a clearer, more urgent purpose, one that was entirely his own, not forced on him by family: to build some semblance of a life for himself. 

He turned back to his own table in time to catch Blaise drawling, “I suppose someone could try to seduce her. Only child, and her parents have to be worth a billion galleons at the minimum.”

“Don’t be mental,” he snapped out. “That only child comes with two Borgia parents, and I doubt Princess Hufflepuff there is up to manipulating them into accepting a galleon-digging suitor. I like my entrails where they are, thank you very much.”

All things considered, Draco recovered quickly from the appalling image of Salazar Slytherin’s descendant taking her seat at the Hufflepuff table. Lucy Borgia had been a consideration in his strategy for less than three hours. It was no great sacrifice to watch those hopes die. 

Pansy on the other hand… What rotten luck. Astoria was going to think she’d strung her along, and generations of Greengrasses had made an art out of holding grudges. Pansy brazened it out of course, smirking at Astoria like she’d been deliberately mocking her, but Draco could feel something like despair encroaching on his friend. 

The injustice of it made him angry—watching not just Pansy’s present but her future be dominated by a single mistake. In the normal course of things, Pansy had nerves of iron, and he’d trust her to fight doggedly by his side even in a hopeless battle—which made her sound like a bloody Gryffindor. She’d suffered a short-lived, highly understandable lapse in courage that day—a day he himself had spent practically paralyzed with terror--as _Voldemort and an army of Death Eaters_ descended on the school and demanded they send out Potter, whom everyone with a brain knew was going to walk out there anyway. 

But her lapse had been so very public, and even worse, it had implicated the entire House, which had been locked up as potential traitors. Not one Slytherin student had the chance to redeem themselves by fighting the Dark Lord during the Battle of Hogwarts, but surely there were a few by that point who understood what Draco had known for more than a year: that you’d be better off dying in the fight against you-know-who then have to live under his rule. 

So they’d had all the terror of being locked in the dungeons while the school practically collapsed around them, but helpless, unable to fight, and reviled as traitors or cowards when the battle was over. 

It was in no way Pansy’s fault that the House wasn’t trusted, but her action that day was just too conspicuous and memorable—she made an easy scapegoat. 

Draco laughed bleakly at the recognition that in many ways his own lot was easier. It felt at moments like they were mirror images of each other. The Parkinsons had barely been involved with the Dark Lord. Pansy had done nothing worse than detest Harry Potter for six years, exactly like every other member of the House. Meanwhile, Draco had gone further in allegiance to the Death Eaters than any other student at Hogwarts. It was Draco who’d thrown unforgivable curses, whose family had harbored the Dark Lord in their home; Draco who had willingly taken the mark.

But in a few key moments, Draco had acted to help Potter—or failed to act to harm him—and apparently for a Gryffindor sap that meant they’d testify publicly to keep you and your mother out of Azkaban, give several interviews to the Quibbler and the Prophet detailing how mother had saved his life, and generally go to considerable trouble to stop them from paying any price whatsoever. Absolutely vintage Gryffindor logic.

And though Draco would never cease to regret taking the mark, he was Slytherin enough to recognize that it offered a few advantages. Grown wizards were intimidated by him—not to mention students—and most probably dismissed the idea that he was reformed. It would mostly spare him the spiteful hexes and humiliations that Pansy was facing. 

Most of all Draco recognized that he was long past feeling wretched over the destiny of a Hufflepuff princess. Living constantly under that reign of horror and abomination—there had been days he was sure the despair and terror would outright kill him or at least drive him as mad as dear Aunt Bellatrix. He still had nightmares and hated being reminded of those months, but they offered one advantage: being despised by a bunch of teenagers, whatever their house, felt trivial. 


	3. Chapter 3

A week later, Draco was ready to tear out his hair. In seven years, he’d never seen the school so dysfunctional, which was just absurd when one thought about it: looking back, not once but _twice_ , he’d been taught by actual Death Eaters disguised as faculty. Professor Quirrell, first year, Bartie Crouch, fourth. And let’s not forget Remus Lupin, a closeted werewolf. Oh and Gilderoy Lockhart—there was a real winner.

To be fair, his classes were tolerable: it was clear the teachers feared him—perhaps understandable since he’d attempted to assassinate one member of the faculty, and been present for the brutal murder of another. He couldn’t give a toss how they felt about him so long as they graded his work fairly, and judging from a string of Os they were. His classmates loathed him, but it wasn’t like he was yearning to be chums with a bunch of Ravenclaw or Gryffindor prats.

Slytherin was another matter. The House was in chaos—no other word would do. The Underclassmen were being mercilessly bullied, and the older students who should step in were playing dumb, too selfish or lazy to protect their own House. Admittedly the House was greatly weakened, but that just meant they needed to stand together.

Pansy seemed too depressed to act but given her rock-bottom social status, it wouldn’t have helped—though it would have been nice if she’d at least tried. Blaise was never one to go out on a limb on his own, but again, he’d largely ceded any influence he might have by staying friends with Draco and Pansy.

Still, Theo, Astoria, or Millicent should have stepped up. In the past the prefects and seventh years would have rallied the House to concoct a suitable revenge for anyone who attacked another Slytherin—how could they expect to maintain the House’s reputation if they didn’t viciously punish all slights, real and imagined? And in only a few days the bullying had gone well past “slights.” School work was being sabotaged, possessions stolen or vandalized, accompanied by an entire raft of newly developed hexes designed to be undetectable by faculty. 

Judging from the constant pings of attempted hexes against his personal shields the problem went well beyond a few bad apples. It was open season on Slytherins; those who could protect themselves did so and left the rest to rot. 

Draco wished he could curse the daylights out of the perpetrators, but sanity prevailed. The former Death Eater getting involved would escalate matters irrevocably, and most likely lead to hysterical public outcry accompanied by blaring headlines for Rita Skeeter “exclusives,” and a fast track to Azkaban. 

He kept waiting for the Gryffindors to step in, but they appeared to have their collective thumbs up their asses. Where was that vaunted courage and leadership when he needed it? But it seemed unless Potter directed them, they were as useless as Ravenclaws, and Draco was sick of everyone waiting for Saint Harry to rescue them. 

The strain in Potter’s friendly act was becoming more blatant by the day, as were the circles under his eyes. He barely paid attention in class, and seemed trapped in his own thoughts, which Draco guessed were brutal. 

Ugh, just thinking about this miserable disaster of a year was making it impossible for him to pursue his own plot to rebuild his position. He kept meaning to try out his Veela power on the Slytherin upperclassmen, but he was too angry about the bullying, and was he really going to force himself to shag Millicent or Theo, just to ingratiate himself with them, when they couldn’t be arsed to protect the younger members of the House?

Apparently his future would have to depend on his N.E.W.T.s—fabulous. 8th years were excluded from Quidditch and it wasn’t like he was going to join the Gobstones Club, so he stalked off to the library to pull the Official Ministry Study Guides for Arithmancy and Runes, supposedly the two hardest tests.

He was trying to convince himself to find a carrel and start when he heard that haunting singsong say, “Hi Draco.”

Draco turned to face the person who inspired more regrets than anyone else at Hogwarts. “Love--, er, Luna, uh, how, how. . . are you doing?” Good lord, he sounded like Potter. 

“You look sad, Draco. What’s wrong?”

She’d used almost those exact words to him one memorable day in the dungeon of his house. Absurdly, his eyes burned—perhaps someone had gotten off a hex that he hadn’t noticed. 

“I’m quite well, thank you, Luna. I hope you are as well.”

She actually smiled. “I like what you did to your aura—it’s really lovely.”

“My aura?”

“It’s blue now, because you’re a Veela, right?—they have lovely auras.”

“Uh, I’m not sure…”

“Why are you sad?”

Draco fought and lost a short, pitched battle with himself. “Why are you asking me this?” he snapped. “After everything? Why did you testify?” He recalled that dreamy voice detailing to the whole Wizengamot how he’d brought water to her in the dungeon, cast a cleaning charm for her. There’d been no hesitation--she’d been utterly clear that he didn’t deserve conviction. Her testimony hadn’t helped as much as Potter’s, naturally, but Draco was more moved by it. After all, Potter had a hero complex the size of bloody Scotland—of course _he’d_ felt obligated—and honestly, it wasn’t like he’d suffered long at the Malfoy family’s hands. But Luna had spent three months in those dungeons. If anyone should hate him…

“I wanted to,” she said simply. “I wanted to tell them about the chocolate.” Right because in a moment of weakness he’d slipped her a fucking chocolate frog, after his aunt brought a Dementor down to interrogate her. 

“I always carried it,” he snapped. “Whenever there were Dementors at the manor—it wasn’t like I went to some trouble.”

“It’s okay, Draco. You don’t have to be afraid of me.” 

“Have you gone mad? I am not afraid of you, Luna.” He prayed Merlin for patience. “You know, if you were in Slytherin House, I would chalk this entire conversation up to an especially clever and spiteful act of vengeance.”

She laughed—it made him think of fairy bells or something equally inane. It was too much. He refused to act the brute and be rude to her—not with the debt he owed her--but he finally said, “I will never understand you.”

She looked downright delighted. “That’s so sweet, thank you.”

“Of course it is,” he muttered. 

Luckily, Luna had become distracted by someone entering the library.

“Lucy!” she called out. “I’m here. Have you met my friend, Draco?”

Draco turned to see the young lady herself, the Hufflepuff Princess. “Miss Borgia,” he said bowing over her hand formally, which of course caused both girls to burst out _giggling_. 

Lucy whispered something to Luna because this was one of _those_ conversations—the kind girls engage in. “He is beautiful, isn’t he, “ Luna said, laughing merrily, which caused the Borgia Princess to make a high pitched sound reminiscent of an indigestive gnome. She whispered something else to Luna. “I see what you mean—there is a resemblance,” Luna answered. “But then, Fury Moonrider is part Veela as well.”

“Dare I ask,” Draco said warily.

“Fury Moonrider, lead singer of _Lunatique_ ,” Luna answered. “It’s Lucy’s favorite.”

“You look just like him,” Lucy murmured, sounding awestruck.

“Are you talking about the boy band?” Draco asked, scandalized. 

Both girls seemed to find that absolutely _hilarious_.

He prayed heaven for patience. Princess Lucy was whispering something else to Luna, who whispered back, causing excited… hopping. 

“Lucy wants to see it,” Luna said.

“See what?”

“See the Veela power—she’s only seen Fury in photos.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Please, Draco—it would make me so happy. I haven’t seen your aura since you accessed your power—I’m sure it will be breathtaking.” Luna was smiling dreamily at him. Of course she didn’t say anything as crude as _you owe me for months of torture, not to mention my keeping you out of prison, you ungrateful prat_. Knowing Luna, she wouldn’t have even thought it. It didn’t matter: Draco thought it for her. 

“It’s dangerous,” he hissed, remembering some of the more gruesome tales of Nero Borgia’s revenge against his enemies. “What if one of you…you know… falls for me.”

More giggling—because the concept of falling for him was so very droll. “Draco, Veela power can’t change someone’s sexuality. Surely you know that.”

“Of course I know that.” At least… he did now. But that would mean… “So you--both—prefer… women? But what about… Fury Moonrider?” He shuddered privately at hearing that idiotic name come from his lips. 

“He’s so beautiful,” Lucy said, taking Luna’s hand, exactly as if...

“Are you two…?” he sputtered. “Well that was fast!” So much for being a sultry Veela—he’d transfigured into a stuffy old prig.

“Come on, Draco,” Luna begged. “Please.” But then her face fell. “That is, if you don’t mind. I don’t want you to do anything that makes you feel uncomfortable.”

_Good lord, not the guilt._ “I don’t mind,” he said quickly. “Of course—if, if it will please, uh, you both, it would be… my pleasure.”

He searched out the spot, that thanks to _Luna and Lucy_ (Merlin save him) he now visualized as a swirling pale blue moon, rather like the cover image for _Lunatique’s_ second album, where the Veela power lay in wait, as it were. 

His time living with his beloved Aunt Bellatrix had given Draco new levels of self-control, and having literally zero sexual desire for either Luna or the Hufflepuff princess, he realized it was probably best that he practice accessing the power now, when he wasn’t at risk of making a fool of himself. 

And beyond a slight tightening of his trousers, he didn’t feel the same rush of pure lust he’d experienced when he’d tried it alone this summer. It helped that both girls let out an appalling squealy sound.

“Look, isn’t he beautiful,” Lucy cried. “He’s even more beautiful than Fury Moonrider.”

“His aura looks like moonlight,” Luna added. 

_He_ was right here, thank you. Draco prayed he looked mildly gratified as would be polite, rather than horrified. 

Which was when disaster struck.

“What’s going on here?”

Draco reeled around to see a nightmare come to life. Potter. 

“Harry—have you met Lucy?” Luna was asking. But Potter was paying no attention to either girl.

“Why do you look different? What happened to you?” Potter demanded of Draco, with none of his usual inept stumbling. Indeed, he moved towards Draco in a decidedly… looming way. 

Aggressive—predatory even. 

_They tend to be possessive_ , a voice that sounded like Blaise’s drawled in his head. Apparently, that was no exaggeration. 

Draco found himself struggling for his self-control as certain physical signs that had not revealed themselves for Luna bloody Lovegood now chose to manifest. 

“Potter, how are you?—you’re looking… rested,” he said stiffly.

“Is this some spell?” Potter moved closer—quite far into his personal space. Draco found his wrist grabbed. “Are you trying to do something to Luna?”

So he was being protective of Luna—of course.

“Harry!” Luna said more sharply than he’d ever heard her. She pushed between him and Potter. “This is my friend—my girlfriend, Lucy—she’s wanted to meet you.”

The move seemed to snap Potter out of whatever—mood—had gripped him. He blinked, shifting back to his usual awkward self. “Er, hi, nice to meet you.” It gave Draco the chance to stamp out the Veela power, though doing so felt about as pleasant as diving into the Great Lake in February. 

“I have to go,” he said, moving at just under a run towards the exit.

“Draco, wait,” Luna called after him. “Draco…”

He cringed at the thought of having just wasted all that effort he’d made to please her and assuage his own fucking guilt by treating her rudely, but it was impossible that he stand there another second. Even worse was hearing Potter ask-- _demand_ , “Are you friends with him, Luna? Because that’s absolutely mental.”

He walked blindly until he reached the Slytherin dungeons. It was still club hours and his dorm room was empty. He ripped back the curtains to his bed, just in time to pull out his cock and bring himself to a quick and filthy climax. How on earth was this is life? 

Two unsatisfying wanks later, Blaise found him. “Darling, I thought the whole point of this was to do it with partners.”

“Sod off.”

“There, there Draco, don’t be sad.” Why did people keep saying this tripe to him?

Draco turned away, which of course Blaise took as invitation to crawl into bed behind him and cuddle his hair. “It’s alright, sweetheart, you can tell Blaise,” he cooed.

Draco always loved when Blaise petted him, and right now it felt wonderfully soothing. Except… ”Are you using your power on me?” He flipped around, batting Blaise’s hand out of his hair.

“No, I’m not.”

“Did you—that first time? When I let you shag me?”

“Of course not. I’d never do that to a friend, Draco—well, not unless we both agreed. I’ve never used it on you. Now are you ready to tell me what happened?”

“Lovegood asked me to show her—the Veela power.”

“Luna? but she doesn’t like men—it wouldn’t work on her.”

“So I’ve gathered,” Draco snarled. “But under the circumstances it seemed rather risk free, and she asked it as a favor.” 

“So what went wrong—did you and Luna fuck?”

“Don’t be preposterous! Potter showed up—and he seemed to think I was doing something to her. He was rather… aggressive.”

“Was he now? How interesting.”

“Interesting!”

“Well, it shows he’s susceptible to it—and confirms that he fancies men as well as women. So here’s your opportunity.”

“Don’t be daft!”

“Draco, you can’t hide from me that you’ve lusted after him for years. Now you can have him.”

“I already told you, it won’t work.” Suddenly Draco couldn’t bear to stay there. Blaise was a good friend, but every word felt like a stinging hex right now. He practically rolled off the other side of the bed and then grabbed his bag.

“Draco, where are you off to now? Dinner’s in ten minutes.”

“To study,” he snarled. 

“Are you mad?” Blaise said. “Study what?”

“For my N.E.W.T.s.”

Apparently his family’s salvation would depend on his grades—how very…muggle. 


	4. Chapter 4

Draco was actually a week ahead on his assignments, so it felt especially pointless to be missing dinner to “study,” but he forced his way through the Arithmancy Study Guide, and began the first sample test. The problems did not strike him as especially challenging. All those years he’d had to listen to seventh-years whinging about how impossible N.E.W.T.s were: but the last year had taught him a ruthless focus. Anything he needed to learn, he did—thoroughly and the first time. Another gift from his dear aunt.

He finished in less than the allotted time, sure he’d gotten all the questions right, but dutifully checked them against the answer key. All correct, which bizarrely left him disappointed. This was going to be a bloody endless year if he’d nothing to do but cram for a not-especially difficult test.

“You weren’t in the dining hall.” He looked up to see Luna, smiling dreamily as always.

“Luna.”

“I was worried you’d be hungry so I brought you a sandwich.”

He just stopped himself from demanding if she was trying to hurt him. It wasn’t a question he needed to ask. He knew the answer: Luna didn’t try to hurt people, incomprehensible as that was to him.

He took a deep breath and forced a smile. “Thank you, Luna, that was very thoughtful of you.”

“It’s okay. I did it because I need a favor.”

This time he didn’t have to force the smile. “How very Slytherin of you,” he drawled. Finally a chance to even out the debts between them.

But of course, Luna had to go and ruin it. She smiled and clapped. “Yes! I hoped it might make you feel better if I asked it as a favor. Lucy said it would.”

Apparently the Borgia princess had gleaned a few crumbs on how to maneuver from her parents.

Though in the normal course of things, Draco would condemn as an abject fool anyone who gave an open promise, he also knew he couldn’t bear to offer anything else to this particular girl. “Of course, Luna. I’ll do you a favor—you just have to ask.”

“We want you to join our club—it’s meeting at 3:30 tomorrow in the Room of Requirement.”

“What club?” he said sharply.

Before she could answer, an accusing voice called out, “Luna, you left dinner.” Just wonderful: Potter was stalking her now.

“I was bringing Draco a sandwich.”

“You should come back to the Great Hall,” Potter said, all iron, practically grabbing her by the elbow.

Well, at least the lethargy and abstraction was gone. Potter seemed as tense and suspicious as he’d been through 6th year— _more happy memories for both of them._

Draco thought about snarling “she doesn’t fancy men, you bloody idiot,” but realized that would do him no favors.

Potter manhandled her towards the door, turning to send Draco a magnificent glare over his shoulder, causing a wholly inappropriate shudder to go through him.

 _Bloody hell!_ Draco slammed the Arithmancy Study Guide shut and shoved his books in his bag. If he rushed, he could make it back to his dorm room while everyone was still at dinner.

So it was official: Draco Lucius Malfoy was an abject fool.

3:30 the next afternoon found him in the Room of Requirement sitting in a circle—on the floor!--with Luna, Lucy and five Hufflepuff girls, aged 14 or so, for the inaugural meeting of the Fury Moonrider Fan Club.

It was as appalling as his worst imagining. Apparently _official_ club activities consisted of listening to songs by _Lunatique_ and then debating their merits, creating scrapbooks filled with photos of Fury, drawing original images of Fury, and commencing work on a fictional saga involving Fury and his supposed nemesis, Bez, lead singer of the werewolf band, _BerZerker_ , a brooding, dark-haired, impressively muscled chap.

In keeping with its new purpose, the Room of Requirement had been kitted out with piles of cushions covered in a shimmering purple silk. One wall was now illusioned to show a night’s sky with a full moon hovering on the horizon, while the others contained portraits of their hero and his bandmates. There was every imaginable drawing and scrap-book supply along with a music-player next to a full wall containing every recording ever made by _Lunatique_.

Draco would have supposed his presence there would put a chill on the proceedings, but no. They all seemed thrilled to have him there, commenting favorably on his resemblance to their idol, though no one mentioned the Veela power which he attributed to Luna’s tact. Draco was mostly a spectator on the activities, but when pressed by Lucy Borgia, exerted himself to offer a suggestion on how Fury might escape the clutches of the evil Mercury, a vengeful former bandmate, who’d kidnapped their hero and imprisoned him in his Dungeon in the Muscovy Steppes. He was then subjected to a full minute of nerve-shredding shrieks of approval.

He suspected that without Lucy’s influence, Luna would not have occupied her free hours in contemplation of the many virtues of Fury Moonrider and the music of _Lunatique_ , but such was the power of love, it appeared. Luna threw herself into their activities with the same wide-eyed gusto she’d shown for Erumpent Migrations and Nargle mating habits. (He did notice the two girls sported matching butterbeer cap necklaces—but even Draco had limits and steadfastly refused Luna’s attempt to gift him with one.)

By the end of the first club meeting, Lucy and especially Luna gazed at him with such gratitude he realized he was doomed. For reasons he chose not to examine, he could not bring himself to spurn that winning smile, or even make polite excuses when Luna entreated him to come to the next meeting.

The prospect that it would get out that he was a member of the Fury Moonrider Fan Club was too frightful to contemplate, and he was sure his friends must see through his pathetic attempts to act unconcerned. For once Pansy was too preoccupied with her own woes to sniff out a friend’s embarrassing secret, which he supposed he should feel grateful for, though it was a sign of how miserable she was. If Blaise suspected anything he kept quiet, disturbing in its way, but at least Draco was able to postpone his humiliation.

Those were his closest friends—what the rest of Slytherin would say, let alone Gryffindor, was fuel for an entire new genre of nightmares, these destined to come true, since he could hardly expect to keep his attendance at the meetings secret forever. But it seemed he was trapped on the course he’d set—rather like a car at Gringotts there was no getting off until he’d reached his destination.

He was surprised that the second meeting of Moonriders, as his fellow club members now called it, wasn’t… awful. Everything they did struck him as totally pointless: there was no prestige or potential advantage to celebrating Fury Moonrider, no money to be made or useful connections. But there was something in the very pointlessness that made it soothing. He realized he’d never in his life engaged in an activity just for enjoyment. He’d always needed a motive to justify it.

And while he’d have preferred rather less in the way of giggling and squealing, he found he could tolerate it since no one was laughing at him. Indeed, the Hufflepuff Moonrider fans somehow managed to spend entire hours together without anyone uttering a single cutting remark or bit of nasty gossip. Two years ago he would have written them off as phony or manipulative; now the idea seemed laughable. They were exactly who they appeared—only a fool (or a Slytherin) could doubt it.

Against his will, he got caught up in the story they were working on, and found himself arguing that they develop Mercury into a more intriguing villain, with a full backstory and complicated love/hate for Fury, and deliciously spiteful and clever instead of the usual blustering brute out for world domination.

He was actually in a half-decent mood as he left the Moonhouse as they’d taken to calling their Club headquarters. Luna was so delighted she kissed him, which was exceedingly awkward—for him. Lucy seemed to think it adorable and feel no threat whatsoever.

“Thank you, Draco,” Luna whispered. “I’m glad you’re my friend.”

“Of course, Luna,” he said, murmuring “I’m glad you’re my friend,” as she skipped off hand in hand with Lucy.

Of course, that was when he found himself slammed against the wall, and there was a familiar fluid-like shimmer of the scene in front of him as Potter slipped off his invisibility cloak.

“What the fuck, Potter!”

“Why are you bothering Luna? Haven’t you done enough?”

“Did that look like I’m bothering her? Why are you spying on me? How on earth is this your business?”

“It’s my business because Luna is my friend.” Of course Potter had no hesitation claiming her. “I care about her, and I won’t see her hurt again.”

Draco wanted to shout _we’re friends too_ , but he didn’t—he couldn’t. It felt like he’d be claiming too much for himself, though Luna hadn’t hesitated to claim him as a friend only moments before. But that was Luna. It was not in him to assert that their accounts were somehow balanced—they weren’t. They’d probably never be.

There was something miserable in the idea.

“You’re up to something with her, and I’m going to find out what it is, and then you’ll be sorry.”

“What a novelty—it’s not like I’ve ever felt that before!”

“She testified for you—I did. Because I thought you’d somehow changed, but I was wrong, wasn’t I. You’re still a manipulative prat, who doesn’t care who he hurts so long as you get what you want.”

Draco hated how much the words stung. He tried to shove Potter away, but Blaise was right—Potter had filled out during his year fighting the Dark Lord and easily kept his grip.

But Draco had learned a few skills himself and wordlessly directed all of his power into his _Protego_. Instead of throwing Potter against the opposite wall as it once had Fenrir Greyback, the spell only forced Potter back an inch or so, but it was enough to let Draco slip out of his grasp.

“Leave me the fuck alone,” he snarled.

That night at dinner really was 6th year all over again—Potter staring at him like Draco was about to start throwing unforgivable curses at his fellow diners. Even Blaise noticed. “What’s got into the chosen one?”

“Apparently he thinks I’m up to no good.”

“Would that you were: what happened to your plan to seduce all of Slytherin House?”

“I find I have to actually like people to want to seduce them,” Draco said wearily.

“So not your father’s son.”

He scowled, and let the Veela power off the leash for just a second.

“Oh, aren’t you the naughty boy,” Blaise drawled. “But careful—you never know who might be watching.”

Draco wished he could just ignore Potter, and he managed for about ten seconds to not look, but some habits were simply too hard to break. He regretted it immediately. Apparently the Veela power instead of enticing his nemesis sent him into a towering rage. Draco could practically taste it from thirty feet away.

Between Blaise’s teasing and Potter’s baleful gaze, Draco’s mood soured and he left before dessert. Luna was still at the Ravenclaw table so he supposed he’d be spared Potter stalking him.

Back in the Slytherin common-room, a group of third years were huddled together, obviously engaged in some pathetic little plot. They all glared at him, which put him into an even fouler mood. In revenge, he sneered and took a seat on the sofa mere feet away from them, wandlessly summoning a book from his room. 

Several of them looked a bit cowed by that, but a more brazen youngster cast a _muffliato_ ; Draco rolled his eyes—like a spell cast by a third year could penetrate his _Protego_ **.**

He almost wished the spell had blocked his ears, because for the next 15 minutes he was forced to listen to the useless rantings typical of powerless people. Apparently, during Potions that day, all the third-year Slytherin cauldrons had been tampered with to explode foul smelling oil. This was no Weasley Twin prank: the oil proved caustic, burning through textbooks, clothing and supplies that in their reduced post-war circumstances, many Slytherins could ill afford to replace. More seriously, an unlucky Muggleborn Gryffindor got a drop on their skin and ended up going into seizures from some kind of allergic reaction and was still recovering.

Of course, Professor Slughorn seemed intent on putting as much distance between himself and his House and immediately blamed the Slytherin students, despite it being obvious that they’d been the victims of a malicious prank. Without even investigating he’d sentenced the entire year to a month’s detentions and docked all the remaining points from the House, enraging the Quidditch team, who’d miraculously won their first game against Hufflepuff, and leading to an hour-long dressing down from the Prefects.

Predictably, the third-years were now out for revenge, and Draco rolled his eyes as he listened to a long succession of unworkable or ridiculously excessive ideas for how to get it.

Finally it all just exploded. “Do you even know it was the Gryffindor third years?” he shouted, after the idiot bloke who cast the _muffliato_ suggested lacing the Gryffindor potion supplies with Acromantula venom. “Could any of you spell those cauldrons? Ten galleons says it was a fifth year—and if you think it was a Gryffindor you’re bloody daft. And seriously: Acromantula Venom? It’s a level four controlled substance: which means it bears tracing spells that will lead right back to whoever bought it. You’d be caught immediately, and if you’re lucky you’d only be expelled. Given the way this fucking year is going you’d probably kill someone and end up in Azkaban.”

“Next to your father then, Death Eater?”

“Yes, along with my father—and with your vaults and home confiscated by the ministry, your family reduced to penury—sound worth it, does it?”

From the horrified looks, Draco thought his words had made an impression, but then he realized in his agitation his sleeve had ridden up, revealing the Dark Mark.

“Take a good look,” he forced himself to say.

Finally a girl asked, “Did it hurt?” Her name he did know: Persephone Fudge, granddaughter to the disgraced former Minister of Magic.

“Yes.”

“Why did you…”

“Because I was a bloody fool!”

“But…”

“NO! No buts.” Draco took a deep breath—he needed them to understand. He owed it to the universe to say now what he wished someone had said to him, someone he would actually have listened to. “They weren’t powerful or noble or brave—not a single one of them. They were deranged lunatics who got their pleasure from torturing and murdering people who couldn’t fight back.”

Draco felt sure he’d gotten through, but there was no missing the despair that quickly took over as the young Slytherins saw their hopes of stopping the bullying evaporate.

He pinched his brows. He was the last person who could blame them for wanting revenge: he’d always defended Slytherin bullying on principle as the most effective way to make sure the other houses properly feared you, and he would have counseled maximum retaliation for the business with the cauldrons.

But it was a safe wager that the students responsible for the bullying had lost loved ones in the war. The past two years had given Draco a bit too much insight into the temptation to blindly attack someone who couldn’t retaliate when you had no chance of hurting the person who’d actually injured you.

But even setting aside such moral niceties, pragmatically if Slytherin retaliated they’d only be injuring themselves, delaying any chance of restoring their reputations, for themselves and likely their families as well. No one in the Wizarding world was inclined to give Slytherins the benefit of the doubt.

Not Potter certainly. Although…

There was Luna.

A bizarre idea took hold. It was beyond daft, likely unworkable, but he found that once his brain had seized on it, it wouldn’t let go.

“I will offer you a deal—I will offer it once, and never again. You will either accept and do everything I tell you or refuse and never bother me again. I will teach you protection spells.”

The venom purveyor made a loud scoff. Draco really wanted to punch this brat. “What’s your name?”

“Marcus Rutherford.”

Draco took out his wand and placed it on the table. “Go ahead, Rutherford, shoot a hex at me.”

Draco was aware that with students in any other Hogwarts house there would have been questions and handwringing requiring tedious assurances that _yes, he was inviting them to hex him_. Thank Merlin, a Slytherin required nothing of the kind. The brat had his wand out in an instant and shot off a stinging hex—only to have it rebound and hit him. Draco let him suffer a few seconds and then wandlessly undid it.

“How did you do that?” Rutherford demanded. “You have an amulet?”

“Do you see an amulet?” Draco sneered. “It’s a spell, one I devised myself, a permanent _Protego_. If I know the attack is coming I can rebound it. But even if I don’t…” He turned his back on the group. “Fudge, you try this time.”

Fudge might not be a right prick like Rutherford, but neither did she require reassurances about hexing an upperclassman. A second later he felt the spark as something hit him—jelly-legs if he had to guess.

“How did you do that?”

“Necessity: Have you heard of Bellatrix Lestrange? She was my aunt, my mother’s sister—she lived in my home for two years, and if you think blood made her loyal to me, think again. I lost count of how many times she hit me with the _Cruciatus_ curse; she thought it was a hilarious joke. Then there was Fenrir Greyback, another family friend.” Draco controlled his wince, wishing he’d not brought him up. Greyback was the reason he’d mastered an unbreakable locking spell for his bedroom. “Let’s just leave it that their company was highly motivating.”

“What do you want in return?” the Fudge girl asked.

“Galleons no doubt,” scoffed Rutherford. 

“Insult me again and my offer is withdrawn.”

“Then what?”

He was pleased to see the young Slytherins would never be stupid enough to enter a deal blindly as Draco had with Luna—no matter how desperate they were. Draco smiled cruelly. “Something suitably humiliating—it’s the only way you’ll properly respect the trouble I’m going to. I want you to attend the meeting of a club. Every hour that you attend, and conduct yourselves properly and courteously to your fellow members, is an hour I will spend teaching you protection spells. If anyone says a word to distress one of the members, a single disdainful or hurtful remark, you are out, and you and I are enemies.”

It really was remarkably pleasant to deal with Slytherins sometimes—you could just set the terms and know they understood and more importantly, were under no doubt that you meant every word.

The next day should prove amusing.


	5. Chapter 5

Those first few minutes that Draco watched the Slytherins’ expressions as they took in the nature of the club he’d blackmailed them into joining were some of the most purely enjoyable he’d had in years. They were utterly shocked and confounded, at times appearing almost petrified of the Hufflepuffs, who welcomed them warmly as fellow devotees of Fury Moonrider. Even when they found that some of their guests were in fact totally unfamiliar with the music or the man, they only became more enthusiastic. After all, to know Fury Moonrider was to love him, and they relished the task of initiating new friends to share their happiness.

The perfect joyful absurdity couldn’t last of course. Draco could see as the Slytherins’ bewilderment transformed to sharp-eyed knowingness as one by one they realized who Lucy Borgia was, and _abracadabra!_ the world made sense again. Of course Draco was engaged in some plot to seduce her or cultivate her for his own benefit.

Once Draco was confident that his housemates would not wound his fellow Moonriders with any show of disdain for their idol, he was able to apply himself fully to the brainstorming session taking place on the scene where Mercury drives the heroes apart by revealing Fury’s Veela heritage to Bez.

He wasn’t sure what to make of the fact that he enjoyed the club meeting even more with the Slytherins there than he had without them. But there was a comfort in the presence of people whose behavior he could predict, whose motives made sense. And they allowed him to indulge in a little cruel satisfaction at his Housemates’ confusion without feeling like he was hurting those who wouldn’t try to hurt him back.

And to their credit, once his Housemates were able to identify a comprehensible motive for their presence at the Moonriders meeting, they turned their attention as any proper Slytherin would to working the situation to their advantage. It was clear to any idiot that the way to win over Lucy Borgia was to win over her friends, so the young Slytherins applied their considerable intellects to solving the puzzle of how to make friends with a Hufflepuff. And they quickly discovered, as Draco had, that by far the easiest method was to join in their celebration of Fury Moonrider.

By the end of the following day, Draco marveled that he thought the challenging part of this would be integrating the third-years into Moonriders. How was it he’d never realized how impossible it was to teach Slytherins?

They’d gathered in the Room of Requirement that Saturday morning; all signs of the Moonhouse were gone, and he suspected it looked much as it did for Dumbledore’s army, though now with Slytherin colors and snake emblems on every possible surface.

Standing in front of those pinched faces, it occurred to him that the House really was chock full of obnoxious little gits. And not just Marcus Rutherford. They were all excessively skeptical of everything, questioning him in that sneering, derisive tone that he’d heard from his own mouth countless times.

For once in his life, Draco willingly conceded Potter’s superiority to him in an activity—as if a Malfoy would ever aspire to a profession as wretched as teaching. But strict fairness forced him to admit that he did not have the best temperament for the work, even of students less fucking annoying. On his best day, he was neither patient nor even-tempered. School work mostly came easily to him and he knew from the few times he’d tried to help poor Crabbe that he had no idea how to explain something he found intuitive to someone who found the material impenetrable. 

But those problems dwarfed the real one, that he discovered the moment he opened his mouth to explain how to cast the _Protego_. He’d no fucking clue. In truth the spell had been the product of utter desperation as he sought any method he could to stop his Aunt from… to stop her period. He could not risk any form of offensive magic against Bellatrix, his uncle, or the other members of the Dark Lord’s inner circle—this was not a group that respected defiance. He was ashamed to admit to the younger students the terror and agony that had driven him to become so adept with protection spells—spells that by necessity were most often performed wandless or wordless or both.

Draco was on the brink of panic, when the Room of Requirement actually lived up to its name, saving him from humiliation by producing a long table with cauldrons for each student. Pivoting smoothly, he introduced them to a raft of advanced charms to protect belongings or repel malicious magic.

At the next meeting of Moonriders there were three new members, two second-years and a first-year Slytherin—from the body language, they were there on Persephone’s initiative. Interesting. She’d not asked him permission but Draco couldn’t see his way to objecting. It was clear they’d been coached on how to navigate a Moonriders meeting, quickly sorting themselves to the different areas—drawing, listening, the scrap-book, keeping clear of Draco’s own area, the Saga.

He was able to fake his way through the next lesson by teaching the newcomers the protection charms and added a better silencing spell, but he was no closer to figuring out how to teach the _Protego_. 

As he entered the Moonhouse for Monday’s club meeting, he noticed immediately that the room was larger—with reason it turned out, since there were three new Hufflepuffs--Lucy’s work no doubt. She’d been nothing but welcoming to the Slytherins but he couldn’t blame her for wanting to balance the numbers a bit; no one wanted Moonriders to be a Slytherin club.

More surprising was the arrival of a rather bewildered Slytherin fifth year, Antonio Maldonado. With a firm nod from Persephone, he took a seat at the drawing table while she shoved photos of Fury and Bez in front of him. He took out his wand and spelled the paper and then began drawing.

The image he produced was extraordinary: the two heroes on a moonlit beach, strolling along the shore, with the waves lapping at their feet and a bird swooping and rising in the background, the loop smoother than in a professional photograph. It was clear that Antonio was a major talent—Draco would have wondered at his presence at Moonriders, but art was not a respected field in Slytherin, so perhaps the alliance offered by Persephone seemed attractive.

There was no such problem among the Hufflepuffs: the drawing caused an explosion of squeals from Lucy and even a few tears of joy from the younger Moonriders.

Draco nodded his approval at Persephone, who practically glowed with her triumph. Antonio—the rule at Moonriders was first names only—looked a bit panicked as he was swamped with commission requests, but Persephone took charge of organizing the workflow, announcing that Luna would get first pick as club co-founder—clever girl knew that would most please Lucy. Luna ceded to Lucy of course, who requested the scene of last week’s rescue from the dungeon.

That required rather extensive negotiations, but it was clear Persephone had the situation well in hand, so Draco felt comfortable turning back to the Saga, and a tense debate over whether Bez should fall into a vortex of dissipation or pretend to date someone else to get back at Fury for hiding his Veela heritage.

Draco felt like he acquitted himself acceptably, especially in dissuading his fellow writers from a dreadfully cliched and out-of-character development for Mercury, but privately he was close to panic. Bringing Antonio was absolutely brilliant and a real coup for Slytherin, but the obvious success only increased the pressure that he fully deliver on his side of the bargain. 

And as seemed to be the pattern of his life, the only solution he could come up with was Luna. Draco hadn’t forgotten that she’d been one of the members of Dumbledore’s Army who’d faced Bellatrix and his father at the Department of Mysteries. If he couldn’t teach the _Protego_ , perhaps he could offer to teach them to cast a _Patronus_ —the problem being that he’d never successfully cast a _Patronus_. But if Luna were willing….

This was not a conversation they could have in public. Meetings were impossible, and Potter had taken to turning up at the end of club hours to… meet Luna? escort her? protect her from Draco’s evil Veela power, perhaps?

Draco wanted to roll his eyes at the irony that apparently he’d restored Potter’s sense of purpose in life. The Chosen One was all bristling suspicion and hostility again. Draco realized it was partially his own fault since he’d taken advantage of his recent election to Vice President of the Moonriders to add to the club rules a strict injunction against speaking about the club to outsiders. So now he’d created a MYSTERY, which of course was not an acceptable state of things for Harry fucking Potter, who seemed to think he had an inviolable right to know every bloody secret at Hogwarts, no matter how private or irrelevant.

That left the end of club hours, when the senior officers often lingered a few minutes to chat or replace items that had been left out. Today, luck was with him, since all of Lucy and Persephone’s attention was on Antonio. The three walked out of the Moonhouse deep in negotiations about the different genres of art he could produce. Draco drifted over to help Luna gather up the new sketches to be added to the scrapbooks at next meeting.

As they returned the scrapbooks to their shelf, he said awkwardly, “I appreciate how you’ve welcomed the Slytherins. I realize I probably should have asked beforehand.”

Luna just smiled. “It’s okay, Draco. You’re vice president. You're free to invite your friends.”

“Well, they’re not my friends, precisely; I was trying to help them with something, and in return I asked them to come to the club.” Draco wasn’t sure why he felt obliged to have that out in the open, but he did.

“I suspected something like that, but they liked it, didn’t they?—they came back.”

“Yes, and I’m very grateful for how accepting you and the other club members have been to them. Not everyone would have been.”

“Lucy likes it,” she said. “Until Hogwarts, she was homeschooled and she always dreamed about starting a club.”

“Well, I’m doubly glad to take part then. The truth is Luna, I need to ask a favor.”

“Of course, Draco. Anything.”

He winced. “Please, never say that to me, or any Slytherin—I beg you.”

“You said it to me, Draco,” she laughed.

“I realize, but Luna, surely you understand that _I am not like you_. Please, just don’t offer an open promise like that.” Luna was from an old magical family: she’d have been taught from a young age that breaking promises was no trivial thing for any magic-user. What she’d not been taught is that there were people in their world who’d jump to take advantage of that.

She looked pained but said after a moment, “Alright, Draco. I think I understand. Would you tell me what the favor is, please.”

“Of course. I need to teach some spells to this lot, but I’m having trouble and I wanted to know if you’d help me.”

She seemed to be opening her mouth to say ‘of course,’ but stopped herself and said, “What kind of spell?”

He nodded in gratitude, though explaining the next part was hard: There was nothing deceptive or fake about Luna, but her dreaminess could mislead, tempt one to underestimate her formidable observational skills. Luna was the sole person at Hogwarts, the sole person who wasn’t a Death Eater, with any knowledge of what he’d endured at the Manor, and she would have no trouble drawing the correct inferences about any information he shared. But there was no help for it: he owed her the truth.

“Protection spells. I have one that’s quite good, a permanent _Protego_ , but I didn’t learn it in class--or even from a teacher—more through trial and error.” He could feel his face burning. “And mostly I had to cast it silently. I’m finding it very hard to teach. I thought I might offer to teach them a _Patronus_ instead, but…I’ve never been able to cast one.”

She was staring at him now, as she took in the truth that he wasn’t saying. He had to fight not to cower under that gentle compassion. “I thought I would never cast another _Patronus_ ,” she said finally. “After the Dementor. That I’d lost…myself and that perhaps it was… just gone. When you gave me the chocolate, I realized I could get it back… if I lost that part of myself, I could find it again. After, it wasn’t that bad—for me. I promise I’ll do my best to teach them the _Patronus_ , Draco.”

She darted away then, which wasn’t like her, but given that Draco practically collapsed against the wall, he understood the impulse. He felt naked, raw, and there was a bizarre comfort in the knowledge that Luna felt the same—that they’d shared that.

_Stupid fucking chocolate frog._

He sank down to the floor and cried as hard as he did the night Dumbledore died.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So I kind of imagined Persephone Fudge as a young Fiona Hill, who testified in the impeachment inquiry on November 21. 2019.

Of course, Draco should have paid a bit more attention to Luna’s precise words, “I promise I’ll do my best to teach the _Patronus_.” In retrospect, he couldn’t be surprised that at the next meeting of Moonriders, who should he see but fucking Potter enter with Luna.

Potter barely took his eyes off Draco as he absently responded to Lucy’s enthusiastic welcome. Draco felt a momentary panic that the news would finally spread that he was Vice President of the Fury Moonrider fan club. But then he took in the expressions of the Slytherins. They tried to hide it with defiance, but it was easy for him to tell that every last one of them—even fucking Marcus—was crushed. They all took for granted that Potter’s arrival meant they were about to be ejected—returned to the state where no one at school would speak to them, where they were at the mercy of a vindictive mob.

It made him blisteringly furious.

The Slytherins were doing nothing wrong: so what if their motives were not as noble and selfless as suited Gryffindor morality. They were behaving—more than that, contributing. Antonio’s arrival had brought something of real value to their fellow Moonriders. They were building something here, something that he’d never seen before at Hogwarts, that most would have said was impossible.

It gave him a clarity he rarely had these days. His Housemates were members, Moonriders, and it was on Draco to defend them.

Potter was barely even trying to be civil as he extricated himself from various well-wishers and made his way over to Draco. “What’s going on here, Malfoy?”

Draco pointed at the list of rules posted beneath the names of the club officers. “First names only, _Harry_. Club rules.”

“I don’t care about your fucking club rules,” Potter hissed. “I want to know what you’re up to.”

Wasn’t it just typical: Slytherins were reviled by adults and students alike as cruel, selfish bullies. But right now it was Saint Potter who was running roughshod over the feelings of some 14-year-old Hufflepuff girls who’d never hurt anyone—not to mention what he was doing to the Slytherins.

“Not here.” Draco grabbed Potter by the sleeve and pulled him over to the listening corner. He shoved Harry past the barrier and made a quick wandless gesture to activate the sound-proofing. “Why are you here?”

“Luna asked me.”

“Luna asked you to join the Fury Moonrider Fan Club?” ‘

“She asked me to do her favor, and I said in return that I wanted to come—I wanted to know what you’re up to.”

“I’d think it would be obvious; I’m the club vice president.”

“So now _you’re_ a fan of this Fury Moonsomething.”

“Moon _rider_ , and what if I am?”

“You expect me to believe you like this…” he made a dismissive gesture with his hand.

“I don’t give a flying fuck what you believe. This is a club for _fans_ , and if you’re not a fan or interested in being one then you can sod off.”

Draco couldn’t remember when he’d felt this angry. Unfortunately, that was when he realized that there was a blue glow bathing the entire corner of the room. Fuck—he’d activated his power without even realizing. Potter’s nostrils flared and he moved even closer. “What are you doing to me?” he growled.

“Nothing, that was an accident,” Draco flailed. Potter had grabbed his wrist--hard. Merlin.

Making an incredible effort he forced the Veela power down.

“What the fuck was that? You’re using some spell on me?”

Draco tore his arm away and shoved Potter back. “It’s not a spell, and it’s not your concern,” he mumbled. Forcing himself to at least pretend to be calmer, he said in his most clipped tones. “You’ve been invited by a member so you’ve the right to stay if that’s what you want, but all guests must obey the club rules, and if you won’t then leave.”

“Fine,” Potter sneered. “Tell me the rules.”

 _In for a knut._ “There are four: Rule #1: first names only; Rule #2: do not discuss club business with non-members, rule #3: accept difference, and #4. don’t yuck on other people’s yum.”

“Come again?”

“It means don’t shit on other people’s fun—especially when it’s nothing to you. So how about you stop being a fucking twat, and dial back the contempt. And if not, get the fuck out of here.”

Potter’s face was doing something strange. “Don’t yuck on other people’s yum?” he said finally.

Draco threw up his hands. “I wouldn’t have chosen that phrase, but I was outvoted. It’s muggle or American or something—anyway it’s the spirit of the thing.”

“Why are you even here, Malfoy--Draco? Hermione said Luna’s girlfriend is some heiress or something—that’s why the Slytherins were suddenly…I don’t know.”

“Her name is Lucy Borgia. I don’t have to explain myself to you. The better question is why you’re here, if you’ve no interest in the band _Lunatique_.”

“Luna asked me a favor, to teach some students to cast a _Patronus_ and I told her in return I wanted to join the club.”

“Great—well, _Harry_ , Welcome to the Moonriders. Obey the rules or fuck off.” Draco waved his hand to release the barrier and stepped out of the corner, to find the entire club in a tumult. Instead of engaging in their various activities, everyone was standing around the drawing table where several were squealing over pieces of parchment.

Lucy looked like she might explode. “Oh my god, it’s perfect. I knew it: this is it. Bez finds out at the Battle of the Bands.”

 _Oh Merlin no!_ Draco glared at Antonio, who gave an apologetic shrug.

Draco snatched the drawing he was working on: Fuck. It was him and Harry, appearances barely altered to represent the battle of the bands episode when Bez and Fury almost come to blows. Of course Lucy had gotten it into her head that it should be because Bez finds out that Fury is part Veela, which would wreak havoc with Draco’s meticulously constructed plotline about Mercury revealing Fury’s secret as a way to drive the lovers apart.

Lucy and Luna were whispering frantically with the rest of the Saga group, sure sign that they believed they’d arrived at a major breakthrough. “Now you’ve done it,” he snapped at Potter. “Cece,” he called to one of the younger Hufflepuffs. “Harry here has never heard Fury’s solo acoustic. Maybe you and Poppy could introduce him to it—I’m sure he’d be _very grateful,_ ” he glared in warning at Potter. “Make sure to tell him your theory of what Fury was going through when he wrote ‘Demon Eyes.’”

It wasn’t that Draco disliked that album—and ‘Demon Eyes’ was quite a decent song for the solo work. But it simply wasn’t possible for an ordinary human to match Poppy and Cece’s passion for ‘Demon Eyes,’ and it would take the rest of Club hours for them to explain the trauma they believed had given rise to it. He gave a pointed nod at Persephone to keep an eye on matters, with a half glance towards Marcus, not that Persephone would need the warning to keep him and Potter separate.

Potter dispensed with, Draco rushed towards the Saga section before disaster struck. “Lucy, we’ve been over this! Bez can’t find out at the Battle of the Bands. Otherwise the whole Muscovy plotline makes no sense!”

After ten minutes of heated debate, the crisis was resolved, and Draco finally got the chance to check on how matters with Potter were going. He saw that Persephone had set Marcus to help Antonio manage the day’s commissions, and sent Moira, a Slytherin first year, to keep an eye on Poppy and Cece. Perfect choice: last week Moira had been the one to point out that “Demon Eyes” could also be “Demonize,” introducing entire new dimensions to the song, thereby winning Poppy and Cece’s eternal friendship. She might only be eleven, but Moira was up to the job of diverting attention if Potter said anything stupid or insufficiently enthusiastic about ‘Demon Eyes.’

If Draco ever succeeded in restoring the Malfoy family’s influence, he would expend all of it trying to get Persephone elected Minister of Magic. The girl had more political talent in her big toe than her grandfather Cornelius had in his entire cabinet.

All things considered, that day’s meeting wasn’t a disaster. Cece and Poppy were positively beaming, and Draco had for once managed to win a major argument with Lucy about a critical plot point.

Now that the intolerable MYSTERY of the Moonriders club was solved, Draco assumed Potter would fuck off the moment club hours ended, especially since it was almost time for dinner. But no, after the senior members gathered to set the room to rights after everyone else left, Potter lurked to the side, no doubt waiting for Luna so he could protect her from any evil plots Draco might get up during the walk to the Great Hall.

Except, then Potter made no move to follow when Luna skipped off hand in hand with Lucy. “Club hours are over,” Draco sneered, when it became clear Potter was waiting to follow him. “Go ahead and mock: I’m sure you can’t wait.”

“Tell me what happened with the cauldrons,” he said quietly.

“It’s a Slytherin problem. We don’t require your help.”

“A Gryffindor ended up in the hospital—so I think that makes it our problem too.”

Draco wondered if Moira had taken on more than just smoothing over any Potter blunders. No wonder Persephone had identified her as a protegee.

“I only heard about it after the fact,” Draco admitted. “Slughorn blamed the third-years, set them detentions and docked the House fifty points.”

“But you don’t think it was them.”

“Don’t be daft: Of course it wasn’t them. The spell was much too advanced, and anyway, they’re Slytherins. They would never do a prank that ruined their own belongings.”

“So what—you’ve decided to create your own version of Dumbledore’s Army?”

“So that’s the problem? that I’m stealing your idea? Anyway, this can’t be _Dumbledore’s Army_ , can it?--the original didn’t include Slytherins.”

“Like they would have joined!” Draco felt a little mean pleasure that Potter actually sounded nettled by that.

“Well it’s always nice to be asked,” Draco said blandly. “Anyway, you can calm the fuck down. It’s not an army. I just offered to teach them some protection spells. It seemed the better option than standing by as they tried to poison the Gryffindor third years with Acromantula venom.”

Of course Potter was outraged. “Someone could have been killed!”

“I’m aware of the effects of Acromantula venom, Potter!”

“So now I’m supposed to teach these little murderers.”

“Not that with that fucking attitude. Merlin, you really are a piece of work. They’re Slytherins. If someone hits them, they hit back. That’s the way they think, the way they’re raised. Half the school is hexing them on a daily basis. But we both know who will get blamed if things escalate. Forgive me for thinking if they could actually protect themselves, we could nip the whole shitshow in the bud. At the very least, I was able to persuade them there was no way it had been Gryffindors, not third years certainly.”

Potter was staring at him thoughtfully and then shook his head. “So it’s just a few protection spells?”

“In between all the unforgivables,” he sneered.

“Give it a rest, Malfoy. Luna snagged me in a promise to help you lot, so we’re both in this together.” Draco laughed outright, vowing to himself to stop fucking underestimating Luna. “And don’t think I haven’t noticed that you’ve a whole new set of protection spells.”

“Are you one of the ones hexing me?” Draco snapped.

Potter’s reaction was instant. He stopped walking and pushed Draco against the wall: “Who’s hexing you?” he demanded.

“I have no idea!” Draco snapped, pushing him back. “I can feel the pings against the shield all day.”

“How is that possible? You’re carrying some kind of protective amulet?”

“Nothing like that.” If he’d one that good it would be worth a fortune—possibly enough to let Mother reopen the manor. Potter just raised his eyebrows as if waiting for an answer. This was truly the most bizarre conversation they’d ever had. “Fine, it’s a _Protego_.”

“A _Protego_? That doesn’t make any sense—I tried to hit you with a tracking spell and it just bounced off, but you didn’t cast or anything.”

“Charming—back to your old habits I see.”

“I didn’t understand what you were doing with Luna.”

“I was getting hoodwinked into joining the Fury Moonrider Fan Club, obviously,” Draco muttered.

“Show it to me.”

“I beg your pardon!”

Harry’s brows definitely went up at that. “Show me the _Protego_.”

Draco took a shaky breath, weighing a general-purpose irritation at anything Potter might demand against his need to teach his Housemates some workable spells. “Go ahead and hex me.”

“No. I thought we were past that!”

“Well then I can’t show it to you. Merlin, when I told the Slytherins the same thing, they didn’t hesitate—you’ve been dying to hex me for years.”

Potter practically growled, but shot off a wandless jelly-legs. Draco sent it back at him, but Potter had his wand out to block it faster than Draco could even see.

“Right—you didn’t even cast that,” Potter accused him.

“Because it’s permanent.”

“Permanent?”

“I keep it engaged all the time. I doubt I could disengage it if I wanted to.”

“That makes no sense: the power alone….”

Draco just shrugged, secretly flattered that Potter seemed to find his spell extraordinary.

Though, actually Potter looked seriously displeased. He stared at Draco intently and then silently waved his wand back and forth in what appeared to be a complex of diagnostic spells. “Activate the shield again.” Draco felt his instinct to rebel evaporate under Potter’s hard stare. He took a breath and then flared the shield like he’d just been jinxed. After a moment Potter said, “It’s tied to your magical core. Like your magic itself has become a protection spell.”

Draco had no idea what to make of that and finally admitted, “I suppose that’s why I was having trouble teaching it.”

“You don’t say!” Potter sneered.

“Well it’s not like I knew, did I? But I only figured that out after I promised to teach them protection spells. I needed to give them something to fulfill my side of the bargain, so I asked Luna if she’d teach them to cast a _Patronus_.”

“You didn’t want to teach them that yourself?”

“Well I would if I could cast one,” he snarled.

“And joining the Moonshine club? Where’d that fit in?”

“Moon _riders_ —if you can’t even get the name right!” Harry just folded his arms impatiently. “At the time I wanted something sufficiently unpleasant and humiliating; otherwise they wouldn’t value the lessons.” Harry scoffed in disgust. “For the fiftieth time, they’re not fucking Gryffindors.”

He tried to pull away, but Harry grabbed his wrist. “Wait, Malfoy. Draco wait!”

“We’re almost at the Great Hall, so unless you want to be seen walking in with a Death Eater, I suggest you let go.”

“Are you calling me a coward, Malfoy?”

Draco threw his hands up. “Heaven forfend,” which Potter thought hilarious. He was still laughing as they entered the Great Hall, like he and Draco were the best of mates.

When he got to his usual spot at the Slytherin table, Blaise looked like he wanted to burst, while Pansy looked outraged. “What the actual fuck, Draco? What was that?”

“Potter is helping me with something,” he said pretending to tuck in. He felt the side of his head slapped.

“Explain yourself!” Pansy snapped.

_In for a Knut._ “I’ll tell you, but I need a favor.” Unsurprisingly, both Pansy and Blaise were immediately alert. Requests and exchanges of favors between Slytherins were governed by a legion of complex rules dating back to the House’s founding—which was why it was always a bad idea for non-Slytherins to get embroiled in these bargains—unless of course your name was Luna Lovegood. The word “favor” itself was never mentioned for anything but significant, high-value transactions. All thought of Potter was immediately forgotten, as Pansy and Blaise each began a mental review of Draco’s most prized possessions, to decide which they wanted to play for. Draco settled in for what would clearly be lengthy and _costly_ negotiations.

Draco decided that all this vexation over teaching some third-years a _Patronus, when he didn’t even have to get involved at all,_ took him very far in discharging his debt to Luna.

Luna aside, it was past time his two friends got off their asses and helped rebuild the House. He was not inviting them to join the club: Moonriders was not ready for Blaise, and he didn’t trust Pansy not to yuck on the Hufflepuff’s yum. But they both knew their spells.

And there was always the amusement value of seeing Potter, locked into his own promise to Luna, forced to cope with Blaise and Pansy as his co-instructors. Tomorrow should prove interesting.


	7. Chapter 7

The following Saturday, Draco was relieved to see that the Room of Requirement hadn’t suddenly redecorated itself in honor of the Chosen One: he, Blaise, and Pansy arrived a few minutes early to a color scheme that remained relentlessly Slytherin green. Under the terms of his bargain, he’d been forced to part with two of his most valuable magical artifacts, but so be it. He was sick of playing for less than victory.

Of course, he felt the gnawings of doubt over his strategy the moment Potter arrived. He was barely through the door, when he snapped, “What are they doing here? This wasn’t part of the deal.”

“Your deal was with Luna,” Draco said calmly. “You’ll have to take it up with her.”

“Thinking of reneging?” Pansy taunted.

The words perfectly targeted Potter’s Gryffindor pride and his face went red. Draco wondered for the hundredth time how Potter had managed to defeat the Death Eaters so thoroughly when he insisted on revealing his every weakness to all and sundry.

It was a sign that the Dark Lord’s side was always weaker than it appeared, likely due to the fact that the organization, such as it was, was run by a pack of ravening psychotics, which prevented them from taking full advantage of their adversaries’ vulnerabilities. But Pansy had no such difficulty: even by Slytherin standards she had a talent for discerning sore spots.

“Keep her away from me,” Potter warned.

Draco rolled his eyes. _Here we go_. Pansy had been looking for revenge for months and here was her chance. “Oh I don’t know,” Pansy said. “This seems like the perfect time for all of us to become very good friends.” She was casting around, but of course she had Blaise there to make sure she landed her prey.

Blaise had somehow moved behind Draco and put his hands on his hips. “Draco didn’t mention we’d be here?” he winked at Harry. “How very naughty of him. How shall we punish him, Pans? We’ve a few minutes before the brats arrive.”

Of course a glance at Potter was all she needed to know exactly where to hit. Her movements turned sultry and she sidled up to Draco, taking his cheeks in her hands. “I can think of a few ways,” she murmured into his ear.

When she turned around Potter had his wand in hand and was shaking with rage, like he wanted to be sure the Slytherins knew exactly how to provoke him.

Pansy laughed triumphantly and she and Blaise drew their own wands and moved smoothly into flanking positions. Draco threw his hands up, but stepped out of the way, glad he’d told the three of them to arrive ten minutes early.

He assumed that the Room of Requirement had included some protections against errant—or deliberate—spells, especially in its incarnation as a space for Slytherins to train.

Hexes and counter-spells and even a few curses started flying between the three of them. Draco realized this was probably the most efficient way to clear the air. What he didn’t count on was getting a close-up look at how bloody good Potter had gotten in his year wandering the wilds. Pansy and Blaise had always been top of their class, but Potter had no trouble holding his own. All those years the Boy Wonder had seemed to trip and fall into totally improbable victories—clearly that was all in the past now. His wand work was confident and flawless and blazingly fast.

Just fucking great. Of all the times to get hard. Potter could be stunningly oblivious, but Blaise and Pansy were _not_.

But of course, he couldn’t go with anything so subtle as a boner. No, the next moment, the fighting suddenly stopped, and all three of them were staring--because he was _glowing_.

Pansy said, “What on earth?” while Blaise just burst out laughing.

“You ready to tell me what that is?” Potter growled.

“Oh, are you showing your friends your Veela side?” Luna, just in time to cause yet more unintentional mayhem. “Isn’t it beautiful,” she sighed. “Oh, hi Harry.”

“Part Veela are we?” Pansy drawled. “Someone’s been keeping secrets.” Her glance at Blaise and Draco promised swift, painful retribution. It was harder to gage Potter’s reaction: he was staring intently at Draco, not angry precisely, but definitely threatening something. Draco shuddered and forced his attention to his new arrival. “Luna, I’m not sure if you know Pansy and Blaise.”

Blaise drawled, “Charmed, I’m sure,” while Pansy just gave her an insincere smile.

Just as well the Slytherin underclassmen started filing in. When they took in who their instructors were, there was a general murmur of protest, and Marcus of course snapped out, “What’s he doing here? The deal was for you to teach us, not Boy Wonder.”

Before Draco could respond, Pansy was in Marcus’ face. “Oy maggot!”

“Who the fuck are you?” Marcus snapped.

Blaise and Draco shared a long-suffering look as Marcus went down in a double-body-bind and landed on the floor with Pansy on top of him, her wand jammed in his throat. “Any more questions?” she demanded of the group.

Potter looked like he might try to intervene, but _Thank Merlin_ Blaise whispered something in his ear—Draco wasn’t sure who would be more offended, Pansy or Marcus, but a Gryffindor intervening to protect a Slytherin from another Slytherin was the fastest way to ensure this experiment failed before it started.

“Riiight,” Draco said, rubbing his hands together. “So Pansy will take Marcus; Caradoc and Pollux, you can join them. Luna perhaps you could work with Tabitha and Damian. Jasmine, you as well.”

Blaise had already spotted Antonio, and since the fifth year looked decidedly interested, Draco just waved a hand in permission, but added Fatima and Silas to serve as chaperones—after all the whole point of this was to teach them to cast _Patronuses_ not engage in innuendo.

“Moira, you and Persephone can go with Potter.” Persephone looked up at him in silent question, which he answered by mouthing, _don’t waste it_. It was a safe bet that Potter would have an outsized influence on ministry appointments and elections, whether he wanted it or not. They might as well start building that relationship now if Draco was serious about Persephone becoming Minister of Magic. Moira whispered something to Persephone, which led the older girl to ask with another silent glance if she could add someone else. Smart girl to start building her circle early. He shrugged yes, and she glanced towards one of the second years. “Vikram, you join them.”

Everyone sorted, Draco had nothing to do but stroll about trying to look judicious, like he’d properly be in charge of a corps of faculty teaching _Patronuses_.

He tried not to stare at Potter too obviously. His “Er, so I’m Harry,” was met by three pairs of raised eyebrows. “Right, you know that. So, uh, the key to casting a _Patronus_ is that you have to think of your happiest memory.” More unimpressed stares. Draco wanted to roll his eyes. Presumably, he’d been slightly more confident with Dumbledore’s Army, but the Chosen One was going to have to do better if he intended to teach the best that Slytherin House could offer. Potter seemed to realize the problem and changed tacks: “So I presume you know the incantation. Let’s have a go.”

His three pupils did show a slight response in the form of widened eyes when Harry cast his own, the famous, _massive_ stag. Draco moved down the line quickly. They did not need a repeat of his out-of-control glowing.

Luna seemed to be having an easier time with her lot. He’d tried to give her the easiest of the Slytherin underclassmen. All had adapted quickly to the various Moonrider activities and none of them would want to risk alienating Lucy Borgia’s girlfriend.

A glance at Blaise and Pansy showed that matters were progressing exactly as he’d known they would. Blaise was laughing flirtatiously with his group, coaxing them with winks to think of their most _pleasing_ memories. Pansy was terrorizing her group with threats of what she’d do if they showed her up in front of a fucking Gryffindor.

Draco tried to squelch any jealousy as Persephone, followed quickly by Moira were the first to succeed. Any negative emotions were soothed by Potter’s obvious amazement at the sight of Moira’s lightning-fast falcon diving and soaring alongside Persephone’s prowling jaguar. Of the rest, only Antonio managed a fully corporeal Patronus the first day, a watchful chameleon that when it moved, darted with breathtaking speed about Blaise’s graceful sandpiper and Pansy’s ferocious badger.

As the class wrapped up, Draco did not attempt an uplifting pep talk or words of insincere praise: this wasn’t fucking Gryffindor. He simply gave the date and time of the next lesson. Unfortunately, Blaise and Pansy were annoyingly obvious ushering everyone out, leaving him and Potter.

“So Moira—a first year casting a corporeal on her first try. That’s extraordinary.”

Draco snapped his gaze over: did Potter think the Slytherins were after Harry Fucking Potter’s approval?

“Calm down, Malfoy. I’m allowed to be impressed, even if it’s with a Slytherin.” Draco nodded cautiously. “She and Persephone work well together.”

Draco flared again: did he think he was telling Draco something he didn’t know? He’d chosen them _because_ they worked well together—and Potter couldn’t begin to fathom how effective--and dangerous--those two would be if given the chance. “Stop getting so annoyed: I’m trying to pay your students a compliment.”

“I’ll stop getting annoyed when you stop being a fucking prat. I’m sure they were grateful to you for teaching them, but the last thing anyone from Slytherin wants to hear is that the great Harry Potter was impressed that they are actually capable of casting a spell every member of Dumbledore’s Army learned to cast three years ago.”

Potter’s eyes narrowed but then he said slowly, “Fair enough. Working with them, I realize how comfortable it was working with the other three houses—and how easy. None of us ever learned how to work with your lot, and looking back it feels like a real weakness.”

Draco stared at him, checking to see if there was anything mocking in that, but when he couldn’t find anything he conceded, “Clearly the same could be said of Slytherin House.”

Potter made a small smile, like he was relieved that he’d somehow navigated the treacherous shoal of Slytherin pride and touchiness. Which made it all the more outrageous that his next words were, “So you’re part Veela?—can’t say I’m surprised by that.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Draco snapped.

“Do you really need me to say it?”

“Certainly not: I’ve had enough accusations from you to last a lifetime.”

“Accusations?” Potter laughed knowingly. “Is that what you were expecting?”

Draco swallowed. He’d never seen Potter like this: confident, he’d almost have said flirtatious. He wished there were some notebooks or supplies he could put away, something to distract. He tried to move away, like he might check the room for non-existent debris, but Potter just grabbed his hand and pulled him back to face him.

“What on earth…” he started to protest.

“You know,” Potter said, as if challenging him to run. “If I had to guess, I’d say you expected me to react like Bez.” Draco started back, but Potter wouldn’t let him pull away. “Moira might have explained a few plot points to me. He sounds like a prejudiced ass, if you ask me. Should probably be more accepting, especially of something a bloke is born with.”

Draco’s face burned. He couldn’t meet Potter’s eye as he forced himself to say, “The power can be activated by a ritual. It doesn’t… It’s a choice.”

“Even still,” Potter said thoughtfully. “It’s a gift, right? That power. Seems like he should be supportive.”

“He might have feared that he was being manipulated, made to feel something that wasn’t real.”

Potter laughed ruefully. “Not real? Well, then he’s just being daft—Bez, and possibly Fury too. It’s funny; I’m actually quite good friends with a half-Veela, Fleur, Bill Weasley’s wife. In fact I shared quite the cramped cottage with both of them for several weeks. She’s a lovely girl, Fleur, but I can’t say I felt any attraction there. Seems like this Bez should get his head out of his ass and be honest about who he likes.”

This time when Draco pulled away, Potter let him go. Potter’s look was all challenge. The meaning was unmistakable: it was Draco’s turn to make a move.

In his younger, more entitled days, Draco would have considered this his due, and taken it without hesitation. It was a measure of what the last two years had done to him that accepting something he desperately wanted when it was freely offered felt unthinkable.

But he didn’t run. Draco was seeing something here, something he needed to understand. There was something shocking in the sheer nakedness of Potter’s lust. Not that he’d want Draco—Draco had rather more experience with both classmates and adults trying to shag him than he’d have preferred. But Potter wasn’t even trying to hide it.

But shagging Draco Malfoy was not the same as shagging Ginevra Weasley. Draco could just imagine the outraged headlines. It made him appreciate in a new way just how fucking impossible it must be for Potter. The truth was Harry wasn’t always the noble Gryffindor. He wasn’t always fucking safe, marrying where he was supposed to, staying within the lines that had been drawn for him. Draco had a line of livid scars down his chest that proved it.

Draco was possibly the only person Harry could show this less perfect, less acceptable side. Draco didn’t give a fuck about whether he was the Chosen One, or whatever other rot had been forced on him since the day he got that scar.

And Draco desperately wanted this Potter, the one who wasn’t pure sanctimonious Gryffindor.

He closed his eyes and leaned in, just brushing his lips against Harry’s. The reaction was instantaneous—like adding the catalyst of a potion. Potter practically exploded, gripping the back of Draco’s head, yanking on his hair almost painfully, to turn his head so he could practically devour his mouth.

“Fuck,” he growled, pulling Draco closer with those impressively muscled arms so Draco could feel exactly how much Harry wanted him. They broke apart a minute later, practically gasping for breath. “Can we get a sofa, if you don’t mind?” Harry shouted to the room. Draco looked at him like he was mad, until he realized what he was doing. The Room of Requirement—right. And what do you know: a large sofa upholstered in red and gold, with carved lions for arms appeared in the middle of the room.

“Finally, something that isn’t green,” Potter grunted, and pulled Draco over and pushed him down so he could climb on top, thrusting their cocks together. Draco tried to reach for Potter’s trousers, but Potter caught his wrists and pinned them. He gave Draco a deep, filthy kiss and then sat up on top of him. “Please tell me I can get my mouth on that cock of yours—before I go mad.”

Draco was speechless, but nodded dazedly, which seemed to amuse Potter. Keeping Draco’s hands pinned he slid down to the floor and ripped open his trousers and yanked down his shorts. Pinning his thighs with his other arm, Potter leaned down and gave a light, cruel lick along the full length of his straining cock. When Draco struggled Potter readjusted his weight to keep him securely pinned. “Stay still,” he ordered, as he made another too-light lick.

Oh fuck. Draco let out a loud groan. “That’s right—let’s hear more of that,” Potter said, his lips against the tip of his cock. He sent several short breaths along the ridge, nuzzling with his nose and cheek. Fuck!

Draco gasped, trying to order Potter to get on with it, but all he managed was more desperate groans. After what felt like an hour of agonizing teasing licks, Potter raised his head with an evil smile. “I reckon you’ve had enough of that, hm. I like this look on you: absolutely fucking wrecked.” Draco absently realized that there was no way this was Potter’s first time sucking cock, which perversely turned him on even more.

Which was proven the next moment when Harry leaned down to swallow Draco’s whole cock, not hesitating to take it all the way to the back of his throat and then swallowing around him.

Draco screamed then-- in his wildest fantasies, he’d not imagined anyone able to get that shrill, desperate sound out of him.

The blue glow started flickering as the Veela power got loose. Potter grunted something that sounded like approval, but now that he’d started for real, he didn’t stop, sucking hard and working his tongue. Pinned as he was, Draco couldn’t thrust, and his body started shaking, its own form of erotic torture.

He let out an unholy howl as the orgasm forced its way through him, leaving him feeling shattered. Potter pulled off and climbed back on top of him and pulled out his own cock and began jacking himself, quick and ruthless. When Draco tried to reach for him, Potter stopped so he could force Draco’s arms against his sides and then pinned them under his knees. It was only then that he started again, gaze taunting, as if daring Draco to say he didn’t want this.

Draco shuddered at how very much he wanted this—craved it. It took less than a minute for Potter to shoot all over him. Blaise hadn’t been kidding: the instinct that drove this was blatantly, aggressively territorial.

Potter smiled arrogantly and Draco almost laughed realizing how badly Potter had wanted to claim him like that—how badly, and he suspected _how long_. And Draco would know, since his own fantasies dated back more years than he’d care to admit. Draco nudged Potter to let him up, wondering if they could convince the Room of Requirement to produce a large tub—he was feeling deliciously relaxed and could think of nothing nicer than to luxuriate in a warm bath with Potter—Harry.

But it seemed orgasm did not leave Potter similarly mellow. That would take getting used to should they ever repeat this. But as Draco watched him, he realized this went beyond not being mellow. Potter was still seething with energy—energy and intent. Was he going to explode with rage now? With regrets? Draco found the idea more annoying than upsetting: after all this was Potter. He’d not be surprised if all sorts of nonsensical Gryffindor tripe was filling his head. But then Potter turned on him and said, “Go ahead and cast it.”

“What?”

“Cast the _Patronus_.”

Draco was so shocked he activated his protection spell without realizing. Potter landed on the floor. Draco scrambled off the sofa to put some distance between, not sure he’d ever felt so outraged. “So you shagged me--what, so I’d have some happy memory to cast a _Patronus_.”

“Don’t be daft! I shagged you because I wanted to, I’ve wanted to for months. But now’s a good time, when you’re in a good mood.”

“ _Was_ in a good mood! Past fucking tense.”

“Why are you so upset about this?”

“I’m not one of your rescues, Potter.”

“I’m not trying to rescue you. I just want to see you cast a fucking _Patronus_.”

“To prove what fucking great shag you are?”

“Why are you so difficult!” he yelled.

“Because I don’t want your fucking pity!” he screamed back.

“You think this about pity?” Harry roared out. Draco realized Potter was shaking. “I just want to see you cast the _Patronus_.”

He’d used the word _want_ , but he really meant _need_. “Why is this so important to you?” Draco said struggling to sound calm.

Harry stalked off, pulling up his trousers like he was going to bolt. His entire body was coiled with tension. Something was going on here. Draco held his place. “Don’t fucking run away from me,” he bit out. “Tell me why you need this.”

When Harry looked up, there was an emotion Draco had never seen on him, never even imagined Potter might experience. “Why…” his voice broke. Merlin, he was sobbing. “That fucking _Protego_. You think I don’t know why that happened…!”

“What about the _Protego_?” Draco said quietly, moving cautiously towards Harry.

“He lived in your house!” he nearly screamed. Draco got close enough to put his hand on Harry’s arm. “He was just in my head, but he was in your _home_. After Cedric….” What came next was too garbled to understand. Draco took Harry’s hand and guided him back to the sofa, and then pulled his head down onto his lap, and just let him shake and sob, gently petting his hair.

Draco couldn’t fully follow Potter’s twisted, needy logic, but he grasped that Harry actually thought Draco’s experience with the Dark Lord—with _Voldemort_ —could in any universe be comparable to Harry’s own. But Draco supposed compared to Potter’s other friends it might. Voldemort was this bogey man to his own friends—a figure of terror, certainly, but barely more than a myth.

There was nothing mythical about it for Draco: it was a churning terror, with no end, that left you trudging through one hopeless, soul-killing day after another. It was sickening horror and wretched guilt. It was Professor Burbage’s expression after she was tortured to death… Greyback... His aunt …

Leave it to Potter to fixate on what happened to produce the _Protego_. But Draco recognized this wasn’t another of Potter’s rescues. He remembered what Luna had said about fearing she’d never cast the _Patronus_ again--why the chocolate had meant so much to her. It was about believing—with genuine, bone-deep conviction—that you could get back to some state of happiness, recover a sense of yourself after your enemies did their level best to obliterate your last shred of hope. 

Potter’s life was dominated by the demands of others, of their entire society—he had what amounted to a compulsion to rescue people. Draco supposed it made sense on some level that he would confuse other people with himself, seize upon Draco’s ability to cast a _Patronus_ instead of coping with his own struggle to figure out how to live in the world now that Voldemort was dead, now that it was actually _Harry’s_ life to live.

The shaking had quieted to the occasional shuddery gasp. “I’m not one of your rescues,” Draco said quietly. “We need to have that clear if this is going to go further.”

“Forgive me for saving your fucking life, Malfoy.” That sounded more like the Potter he knew.

“Feel free to save my life again, should it be threatened. But we are not going to have a relationship based on your need to save me.”

“I was hoping to have one based on my shagging you senseless.”

“I’d be happy to open negotiations on that point.” Harry turned his head to look at him, and Draco just raised an eyebrow. “In fact,” Draco continued, “I think it’s my turn to get my mouth on your cock.”

Harry looked at bit surprised by that: had he thought Draco was a blushing virgin? But then his expression turned crafty. “I could see my way to that. How about you let that Veela power off the chain?”

“Fucking prat.” Draco shoved him off his lap, and Potter had to fumble to avoid landing on the floor. As Potter sat up on the sofa, Draco slid down onto his knees in front of him. _He_ _definitely liked that_. Keeping his eyes on Potter’s, Draco undid his trousers and released his cock, which was rapidly hardening. In a single, graceful movement, Draco swallowed him down. Harry’s eyes darkened. There was no way he could think this was Draco’s first time. In fact, Potter looked like he wanted yank him off and throw him over the back of the sofa. Next time. Draco smiled around Harry’s cock, and did a little flicker with his tongue that Blaise had taught him.

“Blood hell!” Potter shouted. Draco hummed over him, making small pumping motions with his entire mouth, that elicited more shouts. Now that he had Harry good and hooked, he let the Veela power off the rein.

Potter knew what Draco was doing, but he’d lost control. “You little…. Fuck!” he let out a loud groan, and threw his head back. He tried to pump his hips, but Draco wrapped his arms around his waist to hold him in place. “Shit!”

Draco went deep, sucking hard, and then stretched his tongue to rub improbably far along his sac. Judging from the nearly hysterical response, that area should be bookmarked for further exploration. In fact…

He released Potter’s waist so he could slip his hand between his legs to massage his balls, sneaking a finger just far enough to threaten his hole. Potter practically howled and came explosively. Unconquered territory, then. Draco drank him down without the slightest hesitation. Potter knew he was being challenged and his look promised retribution. He pulled Draco up to straddle his lap and kissed him, giving his ass a hard slap. Draco wished his shudder hadn’t been quite so obvious. 

Definitely not the safe and acceptable hero of Gryffindor—this should be interesting.


	8. Chapter 8

So it appeared Harry Potter was now a member of Moonriders. Draco had rather thought he’d drop now that the MYSTERY was solved, but Potter slunk in about ten minutes after Club Hours started, even though Draco noticed that Harry had not bothered to show up to classes.

Draco was too busy to do more than nod at him, since apparently Lucy had not given up about the _fucking Battle of the Bands_. Harry wandered over to the listening corner, and when Draco looked over a few minutes later, he was stretched out on the floor, forearm over his eyes, while Cece and Poppy played selections that no doubt would better help him understand Fury’s deep emotional pain.

His and Lucy’s argument lasted a good 20 minutes, when Luna finally forced them to switch over to working on the new chapter, a flashback of the night things fell apart between Fury and Mercury, during the infamous Night on Bald Mountain Witches Sabbath concert. Draco was the acknowledged expert on all things Mercury, but everyone agreed Luna was the only one who could write good concert scenes, so the two of them put their heads together and managed to get the main scene sketched out, while Lucy worked out the illustrations they wanted with Antonio.

Draco was sitting on the floor, shuffling the sheets of parchment they’d filled, putting them in order, when he felt hands on his hips and Harry nuzzling against his neck. “How about you put those away,” he ordered softly. Draco shuddered, feeling his libido surge so high he almost forgot to check if the Moonhouse was empty. Thankfully, they were alone.

“You’re going to let me fuck you now, aren’t you, Draco? Because I have been lying over there thinking about exactly what I want to do to you.”

“Wh…What?” Draco stuttered.

“What have I been thinking?” Potter said, voice velvet. “I have been thinking about vanishing your clothes, and then having you bend over and hold yourself open for me.”

_Merlin._

“Is that alright, Draco? Is that what you want?”

He tried to speak, but it seemed he could only manage a nod.

“Good boy.” His clothes disappeared in a blink, though Potter’s hands were still on him, so he’d done that tricky spell wandfree. _Bloody hell._

“Sofa,” Potter ordered to the room. The red and gold sofa obediently appeared. Potter knee-walked them over to the edge. “ _Accio_ cushion!” A cushion flew over and Potter put it on the floor and nudged Draco to kneel on it and then guided him to lean over the seat. “Go on. Hold yourself open for me.”

“Fuck, Potter,” Draco moaned, only to feel a sharp slap on his ass.

“Club rules: first names only—try again.”

“Harry,” he gasped.

“I _love_ how much you like that,” Potter—Harry said darkly. “Now, go on, Draco, do what I told you to.”

Draco’s head swayed with dizziness, but he reached around to hold his ass open, which was when he really took in that he was completely naked, with Potter still dressed behind him. He felt a sudden panic. He could feel how easily he was slipping into this mode with Potter—these domination games—but if this wasn’t real, he didn’t think he could bear it. “Don’t…” he whimpered, but stopped himself when he realized what he was going to say.

“Don’t what?—Draco!” Potter said sharply, right into his ear. “You need to tell me—what are you feeling?”

“Is this… what we’re….” he whispered shakily. “Is it real?”

“You really have no idea, do you? Yes, it’s real.”

He wasn’t lying, that much Draco could tell.

Next Draco felt a stinging, sucking pull as Potter sucked a bruise onto this shoulder, followed by another on his neck, and then another and another, up and down his torso. “There. In case anyone is wondering who you belong to—and that includes you. Do you want to continue? We can stop if you want.” Just the way he asked made Draco feel better—Harry really would stop. Draco knew that, but it felt better to hear it.

“I’m good,” he said.

“You really are so…so…good,” Harry said, nuzzling the back of Draco’s neck in a way that made his entire body vibrate. “Can I get you ready?”

“Yes, please.”

“So sweet,” he murmured and then called out firmly, “Lube!” apparently to the room. A moment later, Potter’s slippery fingers were deep in his ass, quickly but thoroughly getting him stretched and ready. There was absolutely no way this was his first time at this either.

“You’ve been so perfect and obedient for me, Draco,” Potter said softly. “But I want one more thing. I want you to hold the Veela power back until I tell you to let it go. Do you think you can do that for me?”

_Bloody hell_. Potter really had put the club hours to good use. It would never have occurred to Draco to try to do that. He wasn’t even sure he could, but he was positive holding back that side of himself would be harder than holding back an orgasm.

“I’ll try—I’m not sure if I can.”

“You can. Will you be alright if I go in hard?” 

“Please, please do.” That was all it took: what seemed like a second later, Harry was balls deep, thrusting like there was no tomorrow.

Draco was doomed. There was no other word for it. He’d had plenty of fantasies about Potter manhandling him, sucking him off, shagging him. But somehow he’d never imagined Harry like this—so confident—so demanding.

For the first minute, Draco was too overwhelmed to even think about what Potter had asked, but then he felt a growing sensation that somehow mixed coolness with white-hot lust, the one he associated with the Veela power. He forced all of his concentration into keeping it on the leash.

Except--the mere act of challenging that side of himself made the Veela surge up, like it was suddenly the strongest force in the universe. A bizarre sound was forced from him, something between a groan and a whinny. Just letting the sound out seemed to make the power grow stronger, like it was rushing to escape. He clenched his teeth, and redoubled his efforts to control this side of himself, but then it seemed to turn on him, like the power that was meant to seduce other people was now going to torment him. Lust flooded through him, seeming to permeate every square inch of his body. 

He realized Harry was murmuring to him. “So good, so beautiful. I’ve wanted you for so long, you have no idea.”

There was so much _longing_ in his voice. Draco felt the Veela power adapt to it—filling him with a sense of belonging, of connection. He _wanted_ this.

“Please,” he managed to gasp out, not sure what he was asking for.

“Yes, Draco, we’re almost there, you’ve been sooooo good for me.”

_Bloody hell._ How was he doing it? Just his voice seemed to goad the desire, the desperation, higher. Draco’s cock was straining, his balls were tight, everything felt like it should be on the verge of coming, only it was frozen, like it couldn’t advance without some spark. For a second he felt close to panicked that he might stay this way forever, churning with desires and emotions and longings that couldn’t be released. But behind him, Potter’s thrusts were getting sharper, faster. “Hold on for me for one more second. When you feel it, let go.” _Feel what?_

Which was when he felt the caress of hot breath on his neck, followed by the pressure of teeth. And then Harry bit down. 

The world went white—the power, the glow burst out of him, almost blinding. All of those parts of him that had been churning with desire seemed to release at the same second. 

Some part of him must have registered that Potter was driving into him, growling now, wrapping his arms completely around Draco so his own arms were pinned, and then pulling Draco fully against his chest, so he could fuck up into him, movements rapid and desperate as he chased his own orgasm.

He came—he must have—but what Draco really felt was how Harry gathered him into his arms, and up onto the sofa just to hold him. He leaned his head on Harry’s shoulder, wondering how this had moved so fast, how it could feel so set, so permanent. Draco thought again of the word belonging. 

After a few minutes, Harry asked, “Was there something… you got upset for a minute there….” 

“There was nothing in what we did,” Draco said carefully. “But I can only do this with someone I trust.”

“I would say the same of myself,” Potter said, in what sounded like a massive understatement. _No shit_. This side of Potter was emphatically not for public consumption.

“There’s something else,” Draco forced himself to continue. “I’ll not deny that I enjoy the domination games. But Harry, it’s not the only thing I like.”

“Are there things I should be careful of—things...things you don’t like?”

Potter was being cautious enough that he must suspect something. He could be stunningly oblivious, but he’d sniffed out right away that the explanation Draco had given him about the _Protego_ was heavily redacted.

“Not that I know of, not with you,” Draco said, “but if I ever say “stop,” then everything needs to stop right away.”

“Of course,” Harry said.

“And I meant what I said: I’m happy to keep exploring this with you for the time being, so long as you understand that this is not the only thing I like.”

“Thank you. I promise….”

“I know. It doesn’t have to be today. Just when I ask for something different, that I want, I want to trust that you’ll be willing to explore that too.”

“I promise.”

The relief on Potter’s face confirmed a few theories Draco had formed about what was happening with him right now. And from the tone, it wasn’t just Draco who was doomed.

That night at dinner, Blaise took one look at him and smirked. “Pansy, pay up.”

Pansy scowled and tossed him a galleon.

“Dare I ask?” Draco said warily.

“She actually thought you two would be a one-time event!”

“Forgive me for hoping!” Pansy snapped. “Seriously, Draco: Potter? Does he lecture you about goodness, virtue, and Dumbledore while you’re shagging?”

Blaise took in Draco’s expression and burst out laughing. “Apparently not! That good, is he? Well, well, our boy wonder has some hidden talents.”

Pansy let out a disgusted groan and got up. “I am not listening to this.”

As soon as she was gone, Blaise slapped the side of Draco’s head. “You let him mark you up!”

“What? No!”

“You are actually trying to lie to me about something like that? Were you even listening on the train when I said he had wolf blood?”

“Yes, I was bloody well listening.”

“How many times?”

“What are you talking about?”

“How many marks did he leave?”

“I don’t know—a dozen maybe.”

Blaise was suddenly serious. “Draco, you need to think about this very carefully. I know you’ve lusted after him, but is this what you really want? If you don’t, you need to walk away, now. Wolves mark to claim.” When Blaise saw his face, he just whistled. “Darling, I’m afraid I’m having a few doubts about the soundness of this strategy of yours. You activate the Veela power knowing that puts Potter off limits, live celibately for weeks instead of shagging anyone you could have, myself included, and then decide after all that Potter is worth risking Azkaban for. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve suddenly become a Gryffindor— _all for love_ or some such.”

“Please stop talking.”

Blaise rolled his eyes. “Well, do let me know if he’d be up for a threesome before you head off to Azkaban, because that seems to be where the wind is blowing.”

Blaise didn’t even know the half of it. Harry Potter beginning a “homosexual relationship” with Draco Malfoy would cause an uproar no matter what, but add in Draco’s new Veela power and they were looking at a national crisis.

Harry wasn’t helping matters by acting like a besotted sex addict. The next day he skived off class again—apparently they were done with all pretense that Potter had come back to Hogwarts to pass his N.E.W.T.s. However, he did show up for Club Hours, which should definitely help the prosecution’s case at Draco’s trial for illicit ensorcelment of the Savior, and possibly Harry’s hearing for involuntary commitment to St. Mungo’s.

Harry Potter, the chosen one, was blowing off his N.E.W.T.s but he made time for Fury Moonrider, time he mostly spent lying on the floor dreaming up lurid sex acts he and Draco could perform once they had the club room to themselves.

Draco tried hinting that their relationship was going to cause problems, but in vintage Gryffindor style, Harry just brushed it off. He’d lived through attacks by the press, some planted by Draco himself, and had an all-purpose impatience for anything he considered pointless or stupid.

Unfortunately, there was reason to believe this storm wouldn’t be like the others. No doubt Potter was a natural at the domination games, but in every other way he was floundering. Harry had made unimaginable sacrifices and literally saved wizardom. He was well on his way to becoming the most powerful wizard alive, but right now he desperately needed some time. All those erotic scenarios he proposed were so many tests to Draco and the universe of whether he was allowed to ask for things, whether there was room for a Harry Potter who was not the savior, who could be a little selfish, more than a little demanding, and who wanted things outside the very narrow band of what the public would accept in him.

If the Ministry or Wizengamot or the DMLE decided that Draco was some danger to the Savior and tried to interfere, it was going to get very, very ugly. To Harry, it would seem like they were trying to destroy his happiness after everything he’d done for them; he wouldn’t forgive it. Just the suggestion that they might charge Draco with besotting him with his Veela power caused Potter’s magic to flare so high it shook the entire wing of the castle. He darkly suggested that anyone who touched Draco would regret it.

Draco had no doubt they all would regret it. Harry going to war with the Ministry over Draco was hardly a more attractive prospect than Draco being locked up in Azkaban. Literally everyone would lose: Draco and his mother, followed by the Slytherins; Harry’s friends and the Weasley family, not that Draco cared particularly about that. But to have that kind of split in the aftermath of such a brutal and destructive war, would be catastrophic for their whole society.

If they could marshal public opinion, they might head off disaster, but the chances of that were sadly nonexistent. Potter’s method of dealing with the press and public was to lurch incoherently between brazening it out, making inconsiderate comments that were easily twisted against him, and flat denial of reality. When it hadn’t affected his own life, Draco been content to merely laugh incredulously at the sheer incompetence of it. Draco knew well how easy it was to manipulate the press—he’d been doing so since he was fourteen. But his skills in that arena wouldn’t help him while he remained one of the most despised people in England.

The whole thing made him wish that he’d made more effort—really at any point in the past 8 years—to be less of a complete twat to Granger. He suspected she could solve this problem if she could only be set loose to do so, but instead she’d be heading up the mob calling for his head.

There was no hope keeping it secret. Potter retained his Gryffindor habit of making sure he exposed every emotion and vulnerability to anyone who cared to pay attention. Draco was sure that by the second time Potter showed up at Moonriders, the older Slytherins guessed why. But in case they harbored any doubts, at the next meeting of the training session, Potter made sure even the youngest knew that the Chosen One was utterly gone for Draco Malfoy. Admittedly Potter had plenty of help from Pansy and Blaise, who flirted shamelessly with Draco, sending Potter into a fucking frenzy. 

At least the sex that followed surpassed the already very high standard that had been set. But now the number in on the secret counted twelve Slytherin Moonriders, Blaise, Pansy, and of course Luna, who’d they’d already established was plenty observant, which meant Lucy must be added to the tally. It was a ludicrously high number. The only surprise was that it hadn’t made the cover of the _Prophet_ already.

It would be absurd for Draco to apologize to the Slytherins for a starting a relationship with the person he’d been obsessed with for almost half his life. He tried to console himself with the hope that Moonriders itself might offer some insulation. There were a few encouraging signs that it was helping with the bullying, independent of the new protection spells he was teaching them. Inevitably, relationships built in the club spilled out into the rest of school hours. A Slytherin chatting with a Hufflepuff Moonrider on the way to class was far less likely to be hexed.

But rebuilding Slytherin’s reputation would be a slow process, taking years not weeks. They would be lucky if they had even days. And given that the Slytherins inhabited the actual world instead of luxuriating in fantasyland, Draco had no doubt they were grimly calculating the odds (very high) that the public would find some way to blame them when the conflagration hit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been playing around with different theories of who Harry shagged during the summer after the Battle of Hogwarts: the simpler is Charlie Weasley, and the more complicated is Bill Weasley who has an open relationship with his wife, Fleur.


	9. Chapter 9

The storm itself broke the following Thursday morning during breakfast, two weeks into Draco and Harry’s affaire-de-coeur. The assembled diners were stunned by the entry of an entire flock of golden eagles flying in perfect formation along the illusioned ceiling that transformed to a magnificent sunset to do justice to the majestic birds. After the circling the room three times, the eagles fanned out to drop letters to every member of Moonriders.

Opening his, Draco found an invitation printed in gold ink on actual enchanted vellum to take tea at the Three Broomsticks with _Their Royal Highnesses Prince Nero and Princess Duessa of Borgia_. The date was for the following Saturday, which was the first Hogsmeade weekend. Draco heard Lucy’s unmistakable squeal of delight followed quickly by all sorts of undignified hopping and waving at her friends.

Draco was aware that he owed the Borgia princess a debt, though he had trouble saying exactly for what. He spent more time arguing with her than any other person on the planet, but when she used the phrase “Draco and I are best friends,” he couldn’t contradict her. She was Luna’s girlfriend, which counted for something, and whether or intentionally or not, the club she created had benefited the Slytherins—and benefited him, though again he’d have trouble saying precisely how.

But BLOODY FUCKING HELL! Not one fucking word that her parents, Nero and Duessa Borgia, were _en route_ to Hogsmeade!

It would be too strong to call Lucy a menace, but she was a vector of chaos who had done more to disrupt his life than anyone else he could remember, and that included Potter.

And if she thought he was EVER going to compromise on the FUCKING BATTLE OF THE BANDS, she could go jump in the Great Lake.

Private tantrum over, Draco took a deep breath, regained his aristocratic sang-froid, and turned to Persephone and said, “Common room, everyone.” There was less than twenty minutes before classes started but this couldn’t wait.

Once everyone was present, he said, “I’ll see ensembles, now—you have five minutes.” Boys and girls scurried to their respective dorm rooms. Draco strode to his own room to review his options, though he very much doubted that his ability to make exquisitely fined-tuned wardrobe choices would improve his chances of impressing the Borgias.

Though he’d of course hoped to build a connection with Lucy, and possibly her parents, their arrival so early in the semester suggested they were concerned with the reports they were hearing: whether it was that she was associating with Harry Potter, destroyer of dark wizards, or Draco Malfoy, Death Eater, he couldn’t begin to guess, but he shouldn’t be surprised that parents who’d kept their daughter homeschooled until she was 17 became suspicious when the two most notorious students at Hogwarts suddenly developed a deep and abiding love for Fury Moonrider.

Draco was his mother’s son, so he did a series of lightning-fast calculations weighing the venue, time, occasion, guest-list, and arrived at his answer: cashmere top over wool slacks. He decided on the blue turtleneck--both parents were alumni of Slytherin, but Lucy was a Hufflepuff, so better not to wear green, which would awkwardly call attention to it. Blue was his best color anyway, and that meant the grey slacks, which were superbly tailored—at least he’d have the consolation of driving Potter crazy.

He walked back to the common-room and started his review. “Too formal, Tabitha; Caradoc, too casual; Persephone, good; Moira, that will do; Vikram, excellent choice.” He moved quickly through the rest of the club members, sending three more back, but allowing a few outliers, including Marcus’ otherwise too casual choice of a hand-knit Shetland. It wouldn’t do to give the impression of excessive planning or coordination. “Antonio, I believe a drawing of Lucy enjoying herself among the Moonriders would make an appropriate gift—the composition should be relaxed and unstudied. If it can reveal some notable characteristic in Lucy that her parents would value that would be ideal of course. Above all, the quality must be such that it could be framed and hung in any private family room in any of their residences, otherwise we shouldn’t bother: can you do that?”

Antonio swallowed but nodded. Draco respected that there was enormous pressure here, but he knew the commission was well within Antonio’s abilities. To the rest he said, “You are Slytherins. You will all dress and behave impeccably. You will politely greet the Borgias and then spend the remainder of the occasion mixing sociably with the other club members. Slytherins will commit no faux pas themselves, but will take no notice of those committed by members of the other houses. Your behavior will be quietly attentive and friendly; the goal is to be unobtrusive, but should anyone be scrutinizing us, the most they will be able to say is that every member of Slytherin did their best to make the event a success.”

It was the best he could do: if the Borgias were as intelligent as their reputations suggested, it might just work. There was no point in pretending they weren’t Slytherins. They were the children of the pureblood elite, born into privilege and raised to wield power. They were taught from the time they could speak to be strategic and cultivate relationships that would benefit them. There was simply no helping that for Slytherins, Moonriders was not about the celebration of the music of _Lunatique_ or the adventures of Fury and Bez, but was fundamentally a way to build alliances. 

But this wasn’t the old days, when Slytherins would have treated an event like this as an opportunity to sabotage and humiliate not just other houses but their own Housemates. Draco had deliberately crafted a strategy to maximize the benefit to the whole group—even including the Hufflepuffs—and trusted that their weeks in Moonriders had taught everyone present why it was the superior approach. 

“What about Potter?” Marcus of course.

For once, Draco couldn’t even get annoyed.

Everyone there was used to being judged by the rest of Hogwarts: behavior and attitudes that to a Slytherin were self-evident and the barest common sense, were treated by the other houses as sneaky, manipulative and ignoble. No one embodied that moralistic, judgmental attitude more thoroughly than Potter.

And while everyone there was aware that Draco and Harry were shagging, that did not make Potter their ally. Like Lucy, Potter was a vector of chaos—unpredictable, uncontrollable, blundering about with no strategy or sense of his own interests. Potter had nothing at stake here, no reason to care if the Borgias approved of him or not. He was perfectly capable of mortally offending them, either because he got his back up or just unintentionally, and he would be indignant at the idea that he should show them deference for any reason, let alone because it would benefit Slytherins.

“Potter is my problem—whatever he does won’t reflect on you if you don’t let it. The Borgias are Slytherins—your sole job on Saturday is to show them the best of our House. Persephone stay, the rest of you off to class.”

Once they had the room to themselves, he said, “There is no way to know how the Borgias will react to Lucy’s friendship with me or Potter. You’ve done more to build this connection than anyone—you should feel proud of it. It no longer depends on me. Whatever happens with the Borgias, we all know the explosion is coming. I don’t want the rest of you caught in it. Lucy strikes me as loyal—Luna is utterly so. You can count on them to see you through this so long as you show them loyalty in turn. I assume no one would be foolish enough to target Lucy. Luna is another story: she will not retaliate if one of you hurts her, but I _will_ and you will make an enemy of Harry. Make sure everyone understands.”

Draco had perhaps underestimated the power of gobs of money to turn any location, even the Three Broomsticks, into a formal venue. The Borgias had reserved the whole establishment for their “tea.” The entire rear wall had been somehow removed to open into an enchanted Italian garden, weather a perfect May afternoon, every corner overflowing with out-of-season blooms, amidst illusioned butterflies and dragonflies and real life pixies fluttering about.

Though they had power to transform the Three Broomsticks into a fairy-tale garden for their daughter’s friends, the Borgias could not transform themselves so easily. In contrast to most Hogwarts parents including his own, the Borgias apparently travelled with an entourage of assistants and bodyguards, who lurked menacingly in the background.

Not that the Borgias appeared in need of protection: Nero Borgia was a massive bear of a man who looked strong enough to rip apart his enemies with his own hands. He gave off an air bonhomie that Draco didn’t trust for a second. He’d show that same warm smile the second before slitting his enemy’s throat.

But if Borgia would strike the blow, it was obvious at a glance that his wife would give the order. Duessa Borgia was unquestionably a beauty, though in the rather severe style common among the pureblood aristocracy. She was dressed at the absolute pitch of fashion, and those elegant, discreet jewels on her neck and wrists were worth a million galleons at the minimum. She gave away nothing at all in her polite smile to Lucy’s assembled friends, which was in itself revealing. She was exactly what Draco would have expected in Salazar Slytherin’s descendant: shrewd, intelligent and ruthless.

Which of course made it all the more incongruous that she and Nero Borgia had somehow raised this particular child. Lucy was at her most exuberant, talking non-stop during the walk to Hogsmeade. She and Luna had opted for coordinated outfits—appalling frilly, satin things, Luna’s in pink, Lucy’s in violet, that bore the hallmarks of Luna’s _inventive_ taste and limited budget. Both were sporting butterbeer cap necklaces.

Lucy threw herself into her father’s arms. Borgia smiled indulgently and at least his greeting to Luna seemed genuine. Draco had grown up watching his own mother, so he had no trouble spotting the tiny signs of Duessa Borgia’s reaction to her daughter’s fashion choices, but she too seemed to welcome Luna as Lucy’s friend. It did seem rather fortuitous that Lucy had happened upon Luna Lovegood, one of the very few people Draco had ever known who truly was above suspicion when it came to sordid motives for dating Lucy Borgia.

Draco Malfoy had no such luxury. “Mama, Papa, here is Draco. He’s Vice President of Moonriders.”

Draco steeled himself. “Your highness,” he murmured as he bent over Princess Duessa’s hand, a model of perfect pure-blood breeding. Nero Borgia held out his hand to shake, so Draco adjusted smoothly, “Sir, thank you for inviting me.”

“Isn’t he beautiful, mama! He’s part Veela, just like Fury!” Lucy gushed in an audible stage whisper. “Half the club joined because of him.”

“How nice,” Duessa Borgia said, smiling icily.

“Oh and Papa, this is Harry! He’s in the club too. Doesn’t he look just like Bez?”

Only Lucy could introduce Harry Potter and point to his membership in the Fury Moonrider Fan Club and his vague resemblance to the lead singer of BerZerker as his most notable claims to fame. 

The Borgias were visibly more curious here, as well they should be, because unlike Lucy, they did not consider Harry’s resemblance to Bez to be an adequate explanation for his membership in a club where his supposed arch-enemy was Vice President.

At least like Luna, Harry could not be mistaken for a gold-digger or toady. Potter had opted for his usual weekend wear: a hoodie, tatty jeans and trainers. Draco would have suspected him of dressing to insult the hosts, but he didn’t think Potter was capable of putting that much intention into his dress. He mumbled, “Er, pleased to meet you,” not sounding remotely pleased. Draco wasn’t sure if it was that Duessa Borgia was exactly the kind of pure-blood, society person Harry loathed, or whether he was still sulking that this tea was cutting into his shagging hours.

Duessa Borgia’s expression hardened and she exchanged a glance with her husband that did not bode well. Draco couldn’t be sure of the exact nature of the problem, but it was clear the parents did not approve of Lucy’s association with him and Harry, and he had no doubt they would take swift, decisive action to put an end to it.

Draco laughed bleakly. He really had been trying to be better. He’d joined Moonriders for Luna, he’d put himself to actual inconvenience to help some underclassmen he owed nothing to, tried to help Harry weather a long-overdue mental breakdown. In the scheme of things it was mere crumbs compared to the damage he’d caused, so he couldn’t even rail against the injustice of it.

He suspected it would take a single floo call from the Borgias to have half the Auror department here in minutes. He prayed that Persephone kept her head and kept the Slytherins from doing anything foolish. There was no point in praying Harry do anything helpful: Potter would act as he always did, without strategy, ignoring advice, on whatever impulse was spurring him that particular second. And no one would be able to stop him.

A squeal from Lucy drew his attention. Antonio: he’d almost forgotten. The fifth year was not carrying a single image as Draco had suggested, but an entire portfolio.

“Draco, look!” Lucy cried to him.

Antonio made a flawless bow to the Borgias and said, “Your highnesses, we thought you might enjoy seeing some scenes of the club.” He took out his wand and used a hover charm to float the portfolio in front of him, and then started to tap the stack, expanding each sheet and then sending them out so they hung in the air like the wall of a gallery. There were more than two dozen of them, a mix of stills and moving images, showing moments caught from the last few months: Lucy and Luna holding hands, sharing a secret; Cece and Poppy in intense discussion; Cece and Poppy with Harry, listening to a recording; Luna sitting against the wall looking at a scrapbook, with Harry sitting next to her, leaning his head on her shoulder; Persephone and Vikram organizing the day’s drawings; Persephone whispering to Moira; even Marcus with a group of Hufflepuffs smiling shyly as he worked on a scrapbook.

The largest drawing, which formed a centerpiece of the collection, showed the Saga group and featured a longer loop than usual: Lucy and Draco engaged in an impassioned dispute, Lucy getting up on her knees and pointing at him in triumph, while Draco covered his face with his hands, only to repeat in one of Antonio’s marvelously smooth transitions. Draco remembered the argument perfectly, their hundredth over the Battle of the Bands, but what he’d not noticed at the time was that Harry had been there, lying on the floor, head propped his elbow. Draco’s eyes burned to see Harry’s expression—he was looking at him with such depths of affection.

Draco felt a hand on his and looked to see Harry next to him. Draco squeezed it back and then closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against Harry’s. He didn’t want to lose this.

“Boys, I’d like a word.” He looked up to see Duessa Borgia, who was gesturing towards the entrance to the pub. Nero Borgia was shaking Antonio’s hand, and then whispered something to Lucy, who shouted, “Papa says there’s cake!” Long tables appeared at the far end of the garden, groaning with layered pink and violet cakes covered with sparkling blossoms.

Duessa Borgia whispered something to one of her entourage and then gestured to Harry and Draco to enter the main room of the Three Broomsticks. Draco had no idea what this could be about, but wouldn’t be surprised if they were about to face a dozen Aurors. He quietly extended his _Protego_ over Harry, who snapped his head over at him.

 _Fuck! Bloody fucking hell!_ How on earth had he noticed that? Of course, Harry was all tension now, hand poised over his wand.

“What is this about?” Harry demanded as soon as she turned to face them.

Duessa Borgia raised her brows. “My goodness. I see the reports didn’t exaggerate. Is he always this hot-headed?” It could literally have been Pansy provoking him, and Potter never seemed able to keep his cool for ten fucking seconds. Next thing he’d have his wand out, which would no doubt bring the Borgia guards rushing in, etc. etc. _Hello disaster_.

“Madame,” Draco said, “is there something we can help you with?”

“I very much doubt it, unless you can miraculously convince Lucy to take advice on her wardrobe choices. No, I’m here to discuss your situation and see if there is something to be done.” 

“Our situation?” Harry said, bristling with hostility.

“You’ve seriously taken no steps to manage this at all? Because that seems quite foolish to me.”

“Manage what?” Harry demanded.

Duessa Borgia looked at Harry much as Draco’s own mother might (and perhaps one day would) as if to ask how on earth a nice Slytherin boy could end up with this clod—but then seemed to wave it off. “We’ll need a strategy to deal with the press. I asked my assistant to firecall our London publicist. I’ve no doubt she’ll be here in a few minutes.”

Before Harry could explode, Draco said, “Your highness, perhaps you could explain why we need a strategy.”

“Duessa, please. For going public with your relationship, of course. You’ve truly not a moment to spare if you’re going to control this narrative.”

“I’m sorry—you mean to help us with this?” Draco said slowly.

“Of course. That’s why we’re here. Lucy owled us that you two are,” she read from a piece of pink parchment, “‘totally adorable and in love and their enemies are going to try to keep them apart.’” She looked up, smirking. “She demanded her father and I do something. I’m sorry to confess, Lucy is a bit spoiled. Her father has never been able to say no to her, but I was sure this was some Moonrider nonsense that she’d cooked up—throwing two rivals together, like you were characters in one of her stories. But apparently she was correct, Salazar only knows why.” She gave a another unimpressed look at Harry.

Harry looked like he might object, but Draco put his hand out firmly to quiet him “We’d be grateful for your help, Your Highness--Duessa.”

“And you’ve really taken no steps at all?”

“My influence is not what it once was,” Draco said cautiously.

“From what I can see you’ve been rebuilding it nicely. What about you, Mr. Potter? You don’t have that excuse: you’re the savior of wizardom. In the normal scheme, I’d assume you’ve been diligently working your contacts to make sure that Draco doesn’t come to harm when the story comes out.”

“No one is touching Draco,” Harry growled.

Duessa rolled her eyes. “How very Gryffindor of you. I was told you were quite capable.” She left off the ‘ _apparently I was misinformed_.’ “Ah, here we are. Melody, my publicist; Giovanni, our photographer. Melody, we’ll need a rapid response to prepare the public to accept a relationship between Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy. I’d estimate at least 17 people know, so there’s not a moment to lose. If I might suggest a strategy?”

“Of course, your highness,” Melody said, taking out parchment and a quick-quill.

Duessa looked expectantly at Draco, who quickly said, “We’d be very grateful,” and managed to elbow Harry into a grudging, “What did you have in mind?”

She smirked. “We do a feature story on the Moonrider club—Slytherins and Hufflepuffs, the new generation, building bridges, healing wounds or what-have-you of the war. Mr. Potter, I believe you’ve been training the young Slytherins?”

“Er, yes, uh ma’am--helping.”

“Even better. We’ll get some shots of that as well. This way we set the narrative; any subsequent stories will sound spiteful—adults refusing to let bygones be bygones, forcing their bitterness on the young—Melody will come up with the best language—she’s very good at what she does. Do we want _The Prophet_?”

“Ma’am, if I might suggest _Witch Weekly_. They did a feature on Fury Moonrider three months ago— _Lunatique_ is popular with their readership. They will be well- disposed towards a group of young Hogwarts students coming together over love of music—innocent fun—after all the pain and ugliness of war.”

Duessa clapped her hands together, the first gesture Draco had seen that actually reminded him of Lucy. “Perfect! Brilliant—remind me to give you a raise.”

“Not necessary, Ma’am, but thank you.”

“Giovanni, you might as well start getting some shots of the group now, enjoying their Hogsmeade weekend. How soon can the people from _Witch Weekly_ get here?”

“Within the hour,” Melody said.

“Make sure they talk to the artist…” she looked at Draco in question.

“Uh, Antonio Maldonado.”

“Right—so there’s not too obvious a focus on Draco and Harry. Oh, and the Slytherin protegee… “ She looked at Draco again.

“Persephone Fudge, granddaughter to the former Minister of Magic.”

Both Melody and Duessa’s eyes lit up. “Even better—she’ll be perfect.” Melody and Giovanni rushed off to their various assignments. Draco was feeling rather dizzy at Duessa Borgia’s speed and sheer bloody brilliance in attacking their problem.

“And you?” she said to Harry. “Will any of your connections be useful?”

Draco looked at him, curious if Harry had begun to inhabit reality and actually confront how his big news was going to go over with his own circle. Draco really wished he could push Harry to bring in Granger: beyond her effectiveness in handling a crisis, she was the lynchpin. If they could win over Granger, she’d deal with Weasley and the rest. But Draco’s injuries to her were such that he could not ask anything of her.

“I, uh, I haven’t…”

“Right,” she said briskly. “Well, either you owl them or they will find out from _Witch Weekly_. Your choice. I would be happy to meet with anyone if it would be helpful, but I will require a letter.”

“Er, what….”

“A letter of introduction—I can help with that,” Draco said quickly. “Perhaps with Granger?”

“You realize you’re going to have to start calling her Hermione,” Harry said.

“Only if she and I are on speaking terms,” Draco said pointedly.

“Hermione Granger,” Harry said to Duessa. “She detests Draco, but she won’t want a blow-up.”

“She might prove helpful,” Draco felt obliged to say.

“Will she? And she’s also a Gryffindor?”

“Through and through, but she’s the best strategist in the house—well the only one, but they did win the war.” 

“Tell me about the Fudge girl. Lucy said you’d made quite the pet of her.”

Draco laughed at the idea that he or anyone would make a “pet” of Persephone. “She’s the best of the year—probably the best in the House. We owe the alliance with Hufflepuff to her efforts.”

“And you, Mr. Potter—any thoughts?”

“Persephone?—uh, she was the first to cast a corporeal _Patronus_ , so I guess her magic is good. She doesn’t talk much.”

Duessa just blinked at him and then turned back to Draco, who said, “She’s the best Slytherin prospect for Minister of Magic from this generation.”

“Well, I’ll have to keep an eye on her,” Duessa Borgia said.

“Persephone as Minister of Magic? Are you mental?” Harry really did sound outraged.

“You think her unqualified?” Duessa asked.

“I think she’s thirteen!” Duessa and Draco couldn’t help sharing a look. “Wait a minute,” Harry demanded. “Have you been pushing her towards me?”

 _Only a dozen or more times_. Draco wanted to say _took you long enough_ , but said instead, “Is that a problem?” Harry just gaped as if that was the most incomprehensible thing he’d ever heard. “School is when you form these alliances,” Draco said, wondering that he’d have to explain this to Potter of all people, who as a first year had begun building the alliance that would ultimately bring down the Dark Lord.

“Yes, but I’m not trying to suck up to the future Minister of Magic.”

_Well, there was that charming Gryffindor sanctimony._

“I think the point was for her to _suck up_ to you,” Duessa Borgia said, demonstrating her infallible Slytherin instinct for identifying and attacking psychological sore spots. “I see you belong with my daughter. No political sense whatsoever. I suppose it’s best that she was not in Slytherin.”

“We’ve lost much of our influence,” Draco said diplomatically. “Now is not an easy time to be in the House.”

“Such a pity that so many got caught up in the all the Dark Lord nonsense. So much talent wasted. But Hufflepuff is more her level anyway. The Slytherins would eat her alive.”

“You have got to be joking!” Harry burst out.

“Something about my daughter amuses you?” Duessa Borgia said, voice deadly.

“I’m amused by the two of you,” Harry scoffed. “Your daughter lacks political sense? We are talking about the same Lucy Borgia who got Draco Malfoy to be Vice President of the Fury Moonrider Fan Club? She’s got the entire third-year class of Slytherin racking their brains for new ways to praise the music of _Lunatique_. The best artist at Hogwarts spends his afternoons taking commissions for images of Fury and Bez. And now it appears she got her parents to travel from Italy to employ their personal publicist to further the relationship of two of her friends. Just, when it comes to wielding power, Lucy does not require help. In fact, if she weren’t dating Luna, I’d say she was the most dangerous person in England.”

Harry sounded genuinely shocked that anyone could think otherwise of Lucy Borgia. Draco felt rather sheepish that he’d not quite noticed something that in retrospect appeared rather obvious. Duessa Borgia was blinking, the only sign that she was utterly flummoxed by this characterization of her daughter.

“Camouflage,” Draco murmured.

“Excuse me?” Duessa said.

“The first time I saw her, I thought her appearance was a form of camouflage—mental warfare designed to disarm her enemies. Apparently, I didn’t understand the half of it.”

It seemed a good time to return to the “Tea.” Lucy ran up to them immediately: “Mama’s going to help you, right?”

“Er, yes, her highness has been very helpful,” Draco said, glancing at Duessa Borgia, who was examining her daughter like she was seeing her for the first time.

Lucy’s eyes went demonic. “Brilliant. Now you owe me a massive favor, and I’m collecting it right now! Bez finds out about Fury at the Battle of the Bands. You can figure something else out that Mercury blabs about for your precious Muscovy plot. Do not ever argue about it with me again!”


	10. Epilogue

**CAN FANDOM HEAL THE WOUNDS OF WAR?**

**A Group of Hogwarts Students From Opposite Sides of The Great Battle Come Together over their Love of _Lunatique_**

_“Draco was always taught that his Veela heritage made him worth less, made his blood dirty or whatever pureblood rot his parents forced on him. It’s been really inspiring to see him accept this part of himself, realize it was something he could be proud of, instead of ashamed of.” Blaise Zabini_

_“Looking back, I can’t even remember why we hated each other so much. It’s like we were told to, and so we did. I just want the war to be over—I don’t want to spend the rest of my life like this.” Pansy Parkinson_

_“A lot of people don’t like Slytherins, especially after the war. There was a lot of bullying, especially of the younger house members. But in their different ways, Lucy and Luna and Draco and Harry all showed us how we could fight back, not by bullying or mean pranks, but by being part of something. Some people think Moonriders is silly, but it gave us hope.” Persephone Fudge_

_“I think Harry really understands Demon Eyes because he’s had a lot of pain in his life, and lost people he loves.” Poppy McCleod_

_“Was I surprised that Harry joined Moonriders? Well, his closest friend at Hogwarts, Luna Lovegood, founded the club, so I’d say the answer to that is no. Do I have a problem with his friendship with Draco Malfoy? Not at all. Draco saved Harry’s life at Malfoy Manor. Harry saved Draco’s life during the battle of Hogwarts. They have both been caught in this war since they were children. They’ve both been to hell and back. If you ask me, they deserve the chance to move on.” Hermione Granger._

_“I’ll always think Malfoy is a right git, but the war is over.” Ron Weasley_

_“Draco and Harry are my friends. I’m really glad they joined the club, and I think spending time in Moonriders makes them happy.” Luna Lovegood._

_“Well Draco is obviously a complete despot when he believes in a story line, but it’s because he’s a fantastic writer and cares about our project. We argue all the time, but he’s one of the best friends I’ve ever had. The club wouldn’t be what it is without him.” Lucy Borgia._

_“I owe more to Luna Lovegood than I’ll ever be able to repay. She offered me forgiveness that I didn’t deserve—more than forgiveness, her friendship. I can only hope that I can be worthy of it and start to undo some of the damage I caused.” Draco Malfoy_

_“Well, as a writer, Lucy is impossible—a complete tyrant--but she’s also pushed me in ways I never could have imagined. She’s passionate and brave and generous—I am beyond grateful for her friendship. No one else could have created Moonriders, and by doing so she’s changed all of us, I believe for the better.” Draco Malfoy_

_“I realize now that we made a mistake not including Slytherins in the original Dumbledore’s Army. Perhaps they would not have joined at that point, even if we had asked, but we’d had five years when we could have built bridges and instead we turned each other into enemies. If we’re to build a real peace going forward, we have to move past that. It was Luna Lovegood who helped me see it. She was able to forgive Draco Malfoy, understand that he was a victim and prisoner as well, and together they have been able to build something new at Hogwarts. I’m proud to play my part.” Harry Potter_

“Very eloquent: You really said that?” Draco asked, folding up the galleys from the _Witch Weekly Special Hogwarts Feature_ _Issue_.

“I might have had some help from Melody. But it’s all true.”

Draco kissed him. “I know, sweetheart, it just sounds so ministerial.”

Harry had finally convinced the Room of Requirement to provide a bed, and they were lying together, having caught their breath after a magnificent shag.

“Is that what you want?” Harry asked. “For me to be Minister of Magic?”

“Not particularly,” Draco said. “Were you worried I did?”

“Just the whole Persephone business.”

Draco had been wondering when Harry would bring that up. “Well, she’d make a good Minister of Magic—I doubt you would. But anyway, you’ve never shown any interest in building a political career.”

“Then why put us together?” Harry said sharply.

Draco really did sympathize, but he couldn’t in good conscience allow this to continue. Harry’s respite was coming to an end. The _Witch Weekly Special Hogwarts Issue_ would be hitting the stands any moment now. They were looking at an explosion of attention and scrutiny. They could either control the story or be the victims of it.

Duessa Borgia had bought them some time and a measure of goodwill, but it was only a start. It would require all of their skill—all of Draco’s skill at least--and something approaching genuine cooperation from Harry to turn the story to their advantage. Draco wasn’t prepared to sacrifice that possibility on the altar of Harry’s stubbornness without at least trying to get through to him. It wouldn’t be fair to either of them, however much Harry might think he preferred the old method of shaking his fist and yelling “fuck you” at the heavens.

After a moment, he said, “There was no question that I was going to be in Slytherin, and not just because of my family connection. We all just knew. The night before I started Hogwarts, my mother told me I should always have my eye out for anyone in the House who seemed to wield particular influence, who was gifted when it came to politics or power, and I should make a point of befriending them.”

“You were eleven years old!”

“That’s when you became friends with Granger and Weasley.”

“Yes but, we just….”

“Became friends because you happened to sit in the same carriage on the Hogwarts Express? Shared a dorm room? I was taught to look for useful alliances and cultivate them. I was trying to do that with you the day we met.”

“You were such a little wanker,” Harry said.

“I absolutely was. I don’t blame you for how you reacted. But it’s hard not to wonder what would have happened if you’d taken my hand that day—just like I wonder what might have been different if there had been Slytherins in Dumbledore’s Army. Neither of us can change that past, but we can want something different for the future.”

“And Persephone Fudge is that future?”

“Not necessarily, but she’s gifted. She takes initiative. She identified a promising younger student in Moira and instead of treating her like a threat, worked to push her forward and help her develop her talents. She was the one who saw the real potential in Moonriders and pushed her classmates to work together to turn it to their benefit.”

“Persephone, not Lucy?”

“Of course, Lucy, but Lucy is like you. She’s an agent of chaos, a force of nature. Let’s just be glad you’re both mostly benign. I know she’s only 13, but Persephone formulates a strategy and then executes it; she cultivates talented people and then mentors them. She’s a good leader. Harry, you need to understand: Your side won the war, which means that Gryffindors and their progressive allies will hold power for at least the next decade. But eventually you _will_ fall out of favor. When the Traditionalist faction comes back into power, we will be much better off if the Minister is the girl who saw the potential of Moonriders, who is friends with Luna and Lucy, who has built a longstanding relationship with you so you can meet on terms of trust. Otherwise odds are it will be Theo Nott, who is not someone you could ever ally with. Do you understand what I’m trying to explain to you?”

Harry’s expression made clear he found everything about this disturbing verging on horrifying. Draco understood better than Harry why this was a sensitive area, but he’d come to the conclusion that there would be nothing to hold them together, shagging aside, if either of them had to pretend to be someone they weren’t.

When Harry didn’t say anything, Draco asked, “Does that make you angry?”

“No… I’m not angry. It’s just so calculating.”

 _Vintage Gryffindor_. “You do realize that word could be synonymous with Slytherin? But it doesn’t have to be a bad thing. I put you and Persephone together because you, Harry, are going to have power. You don’t get to decide not to—it’s just the way it is. You’ll either wield it to get things you want, things you think are good for our society, to support people who are worthy, or others will wield it in your name for their own benefit.”

“Are you one of those people?”

“I am the person who wants to make sure _you_ get to decide,” Draco said firmly. “I don’t want you to be forced or manipulated into things you don’t choose, which is what is going to happen if you don’t start learning how our world works. I don’t mind helping you navigate it: it’s what I was raised to do. We both know I’ll never be trusted to hold real power.” 

“I never asked for any of this.” 

_Truer words…._ “I know,” he said gently. “I will help you in any way I can—I hope you believe that. But denying reality is not a viable long-term strategy. You don’t get to choose to not be Harry Potter.”

Draco hadn’t meant his words to hurt—far from it—but he wasn’t really surprised that Harry pressed his head against Draco’s shoulder. A half-minute later, he could feel the warm moisture soak through his shirt. Harry shook silently, trying not to make a sound but not totally able to hide his gasps. “Shhhh,” Draco murmured, rubbing Harry’s back.

Draco could practically feel Harry trying to wish away certain hard facts, to change the impossible, turn back time two years or five years or eighteen years. Harry knew better than anyone how hopeless that was.

It must feel like unbearable pressure to someone who had never sought power, who would be content with a very different life if given the choice. But the one overriding fact of Harry Potter’s existence was that in its most important aspects he’d been allowed no choice at all. Born into a life-and-death battle, his existence, the survival of his dearest friends as well as his entire society, dependent on his enlisting and then fighting and ultimately winning

Draco murmured into his ear, “I am with you in this. You won’t have to do it alone. You’ve saved my life more times than I could probably even count. Now let me protect you the way I know how. I love you.”

In answer Harry rolled on top of him and started kissing him deeply, thrusting his hard cock against Draco’s. Draco kissed him back, groaning as Harry reached his hand down and rubbed his cock. A minute later, Harry was inside of him, thrusting savagely as if he knew something was ending.

It was.

He’d needed to rest, to nurse his wounds. He should have been given more time, but Draco knew it would be enough. It had to be. Harry was the strongest person he’d ever known—strong enough to heal, strong enough to assert his right to love Draco, to choose something just for himself.

When they’d both shattered to a climax, Harry kissed him and then met his eye. “I love you too. I understand. I’m ready.”

Draco believed him. Harry was ready. The war was over. Time to start the peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This really was a joy to write. So many thanks to those who have left encouraging comments--they mean the world to me. I am working on a sequel from Harry's perspective which I hope I'll finish in the next few weeks, so keep an eye out. 
> 
> I doubt it's news to any reading this that we in the US live in very divided times. One of the inspirations for the story was listening to never-Trump Republicans talk about the left (my own side)--just how perplexed they often are at how we think about power and strategy. If we get through this period with our values and institutions intact, I hope that going forward we'll do a better job understanding that some people really do approach the world differently, that there is nothing inherently wrong with being a Slytherin, however alien it may feel to those who (to paraphrase one never-Trumper,) "can't have a rally without tears and folk songs." I hope there will be Lucys and Lunas and Dracos and Persephones and of course Harrys to figure out how to rebuild something healthier and fairer and more compassionate for everyone.


End file.
